


Ocular

by iniquiticity



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Era, Hand Jobs, Healing Cuddles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Neck fetish, Polyamorous Character, Sickfic, Slow Burn, Wise Lafayette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 16:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 37,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5213429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/pseuds/iniquiticity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Ocular (adj): of/or connected with the eye</i><br/> <br/>He was in the eye of the storm. He was surrounded by the calmness of it, by the void of the tempest. He was wrapped and swaddled in the quiet. The tranquil air insulated him from the force of the wind and hail.  He had been protected by the shield of it, and it gave him strength to outlast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> While this story is rated TEEN, there is one explicit/pornographic chapter (13). Please feel free to go to/skip that chapter based on your preferences. Thanks!

** 

It had been cold forever. He had been born in the freezing snow, with ragged boots and two coats, one with too few buttons to be called a proper coat, and the other that bore far too much resemblance with a baby’s blanket. He had been born with ice for fingers and a sluggishly beating heart, covered in a thin layer of snowflakes. 

“Hamilton.” The familiar voice had been there forever. He had been born at the request of the general. He walked and talked only because the general requested it.

“General.” It was instinct. He had been born to respond. 

“Keep up.” 

The words were not intentionally sharp, but they cut through his frozen haze like a gunshot. He looked down at his feet, as if to scold them for their disobedience. But they only responded with dull lethargy, the same that he felt in his heart, and not to mention everywhere else. 

His rebellious legs, as well as their cursed ringleaders, his feet, did not seem to be interested in his orders. This was the worst army ever assembled. How he could hope to make a mark if he could not even keep up a decent pace? It was an embarrassment. He was an embarrassment. Not even fit for command, despite his repeated requests. No wonder.

His feet stopped. Villainous, monstrous creatures, his feet. Mutinous. Disloyal. Disobedient. He had half a mind to court-martial them when they got to wherever the next camp would be. Certainly his next set of feet would be more responsive and respectful. 

“Hamilton?” said the voice, gentler this time. The omnipresent clopping of hooves stopped, leaving only the dull murmur of snowflakes and hundreds of tired footsteps in the background. 

“Excellency,” he said, because that was the default. He was vaguely aware of some plan he had had at some point in the past, of which it was a good idea to share with his maker. Had there been a plan? Had there been a past? His voice seemed equally rogue, for when he thought of something to say (troop movements, maybe?), nothing came out. 

“Major General,” the voice that had ordered his birth said, but that was not his rank. He was not to respond. He could have not been that impressive. 

“Yes, general,” said a familiar French lilt that had always been there. A brother. Had they been born together? No, that was impossible. His brother had come from afar. But they were brothers. Had they been been brothers forever? It seemed that could be the only answer, and yet -- 

“Can your horse carry Hamilton? He looks like he can barely stand. Is he feverish?” 

There was a dull impact upon the snow. A black and white smear stepped closer to him. A block of ice pressed against his forehead. 

“Extremely,” said his brother. He was being frowned at. Two hands gripped at his shoulders. 

He drew himself up despite complaints from the battered battalion that was his body.

“I’m fine, Lafayette,” he managed, eyes sliding into focus with herculean effort. There was an aristocratic young face looking at him, with dark eyes and a deep frown. He summoned up a previously unknown well of strength to look up the white horse next to him, where his father --

no, his father had left -- 

but he had been born here, in the cold, and where could his father have gone? --

but the hurricane--

He sucked in a painfully cold gasp of air. Ice crystallized in his throat and froze his lungs.

“You are not fine, son,” the voice said, from up high. The voice had birthed him from the snow, to fight for this. No, his mother had --

but the hurricane --

and her fever -- 

He took a firm step forward. Then another. Then a third. 

He had been born from his moment. He had been made to take these steps. He had been born in the bright, wet snow, to cover miles and miles of it. He had been held by his mother when she was sick --

The snow reached up, like his mother’s arms, to cradle him. 

He heard a gasp and was taken into a dark, cold embrace.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The eye is a region of mostly calm weather at the center of strong tropical cyclones. It is surrounded by the eyewall, a ring of towering thunderstorms where the most severe weather occurs.  
> [(Wikipedia)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eye_\(cyclone\))

**

The storm tore at him. It froze his blood. The wind whipped at his flesh. It sought to rip the skin from his bones. He was nothing more than a palm-and-wood house, barely held together and worthless against the fury of the downpour. He was badly-patched tentcloth with ripping seams. The rain suffocated him like a blanket. The hail broken him apart. He froze and frothed like boiling water. Sometimes the hurricane poached his bones until they were unidentifiable. Sometimes the snow iced over every inch of him, to be found again somewhere next summer, if there was ever another summer to be.

Sometimes there were voices in the hail.

“Is he going to make it?” said the wind. 

“He’s not giving up yet,” said the rain, like drops on a tin roof. 

“Let me know immediately if his condition changes.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Then. 

Stillness. 

He was in the eye of the storm. He was surrounded by the calmness of it, by the void of the tempest. He was wrapped and swaddled in the quiet. The tranquil air insulated him from the force of the wind and hail. 

There was the eye. It was here.

The eye sat by his bedside. The eye leaned close and the storm could not reach him. The ice could not tear at him with the eye there. The wind could not slice at him while he was in the eye. The eye held his hand and fed him drops of water from a cloth. The eye adjusted his blankets and wiped the sweat from his face. The eye protected him, and the storm stopped, and there was calm for a precious few seconds. He knew the storm raged all around, and he begged and pleaded to stay within the still center. 

“He doesn’t seem to die,” the palm fronds said, as the wind lashed them together and apart. 

“He won’t,” said the eye, his voice calm and serene. The eye had no panic. The eye could not be disturbed. Within the eye, he could not be disturbed. 

But as in all storms, he exited the eye. 

But he had been strengthened by it. He had been protected by the shield of it, and it gave him strength to outlast the storm. 

The storm whipped up again, but he could survive it. It lashed at his flesh, but his wounds no longer bled. The rain washed off him like he was oiled leather. He had been protected. He had been watched. 

All of a sudden, there was silence. 

He collected the shards of his army. He fought to get the ice sheets off his windows and walls. He cleaned up the debris of houses and stores and cleared the paths and the streets. 

And then. 

He woke up.

He was tired, and profoundly hungry. He opened his mouth and nothing came out. His throat felt like ash. Upon further notice, his throat was one of the better feeling parts of him, which bode poorly. His legs felt like someone had tied them into a burlap sack and beat them with a mallet until they were tenderized like meat. His chest felt like someone had taken the butt end of a bayonet to his ribs in a great effort to dislodge his heart from it’s resting place. His arms felt like they had been tied to weights and then forced to carry one horse each.

He swallowed nothing and tried again. 

“Where…?” he managed. It was an improvement, though not enough, not yet. 

The world slowly slid into focus as his senses picked themselves out of storm debris and began to relay information. 

There was the background noise of the camp. He had heard indistinct voices around him. There were horses’ hooves. Closer was the sound of moans and mumbling. He was surrounded on all sides, two by a ragged curtain held up by a wooden post, and two with the familiar worn fabric of their army tents. It smelled like death and sickness, and a sharp retch made his stomach twist with pain. But there was nothing to vomit, and he concentrated on steadying his breath. 

He was in the sick tent. 

He was sick? 

He could have been sick. 

He flexed his fingers. They were cold, but they were all there. He flexed his toes. He had not had anything amputated. That was a good sign. 

He wanted to sit. 

All at once his aching chest and his sore arms complained as he tried to work them around him. 

He would sit. He was going to sit. 

He managed a hoarse grunt as he flung himself up. Being hunched over was hardly that impressive, but the unpleasant songs in every muscle convinced him that it was an accomplishment. He blinked slowly at his worn pants, trying to shake the remaining mental snowfall from his mind. 

What day was it? 

Where were they? 

He was not shackled. He had not been captured. He was in Washington’s camp. It was possible, but unlikely based on his aches and the sound of whimpers and moans, that he was dead. 

Washington would need him for something. He was missing work. He was sitting here doing nothing but feeling like he had been run over by a horse. That was a waste of everyone’s time, up to and including those who he could be delivering messages for and writing letters to. The thought of delaying that information made a new kind of unpleasantness stir in his chest. 

There was no time for delays or feeling sick or considering in great detail all the ways one’s body could hurt. He nodded to himself, was struck by a wave of dizziness (which he did not acknowledge), and resolved to stand. This would be a task conquerable by only his most impressive abilities. Luckily, he was a man of great strength, including the ability to get his feet under him.

First there was the matter of getting his legs on the stained tent floor. If, like his dizziness, he simply ignored the hammering aches in his legs and the pins and needles in his feet, it simply would not bother him. He took a handful of one pant leg and heaved it with all his might. This effort seemed monstrous in retrospect, and not just because the sweat had began to bead on his neck, and then promptly freeze, like tiny hailstones resting on him. Every part of him indicated in no uncertain terms that that was the last thing he would be doing today. 

Being that he had not stood up, nonetheless walked to the general's tent, this was an unacceptable version of future events. 

He tested his feet on the tent floor. They didn’t seem very thrilled about the prospect, but there was no choice to be had in the matter. He pressed the palms of his hands to the stained ground, took a deep breath, and gathered his strength. 

Then he pushed. 

Almost simultaneously, his legs buckled, and his upper body, which had been flung forward, began to fall in front of him. Panic burst through him with one strong shot of adrenaline, and he grabbed wildly for the curtain, which began to fall towards him, wooden beams included. 

Then, suddenly, he was being held. Awkwardly, yes, but not by the hard ground. The wooden post of the curtain had not even made contact with him - it had been stopped, quite abruptly, by another body. The same body that was holding him. The world spun, and his stomach clenched as if to reject anything inside of it. For a second he could think only of the hurricane lashing into the windows in of his childhood home and the hail pummeling him relentlessly. 

“Hamilton!” 

The voice was the eye of his storm. 

His eye? 

Confusion struck and disappeared in one sharp second. 

“My dear Laurens,” he croaked, in a dazed voice, “I must admit I did not know I was your ideal dancing partner until this very moment.” 

Laurens slowly put down. Despite his best efforts, his back did not seem to support him, and a cool hand settled him onto the floor. The tent ceiling looked like an unsettled sky. 

“It might come as a surprise that I fancy fever-struck soldiers.” 

Alexander managed what he suspected was supposed to be a laugh, although to his ears it reminded him more of coarse sandpaper on unfinished wood. 

“Have some water,” Laurens said. Alexander wanted to reach for the offered canteen, but this thought seemed to have gotten lost between his brain and his hand. Realizing this, Laurens poured some of the water into his mouth without complaint. It was shockingly cold, and it snapped his senses into a hard, intense focus. 

“I have to go to the general, Laurens,” Alexander said, once his throat felt more properly like it should. “He likely has work for me, and idling in this sick tent will cause that work to be delayed.” 

Laurens quirked an eyebrow at him. That the man had taken on a blurry glow around the corners did not reduce the small joy Alexander felt by looking at him. In fact, it suited him. He should take on a glow more often. Certainly it did a better job of reflecting the man’s shining spirit, which Alexander greatly admired. It also would set him apart from the other soldiers, another feature he richly deserved. This was made all the more pleasant by Laurens’ hand on his chest. It was warm through his coat despite the weather, and it gave him a pleasant sense of being grounded, drawing the remaining few good feelings left in his body into the small area where the man’s glove made contact with him. 

Laurens was saying something. Alexander heard the pleasant lull of his voice without identifying the words, like he was speaking through a rag. He closed his eyes, to enjoy the sound a bit more, and then there was nothing else.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I would not have expected you to do the impossible, like stopping this young man from working himself to death,” Washington said, gesturing to a seat, and Laurens looked relieved as he sat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your comments & kudos all. Comments give me life like you could not imagine. They are like a pillow of joy which I cuddle with. Just yesterday I was feeling down, and then I read all my comments, and then I felt happy again.

***

When he woke again, it was dark aside from a few sad candles casting more shadows than light.

Laurens was asleep on a chair next to his cot. 

The man would likely stop him from getting up and vigorously insist that he stay here and rest. Given that he found it hard to disobey Laurens’ requests on a good day (nonetheless when he felt he may have been put in a whiskey barrel and tossed down a mountain), it was tantamount he maneuvered as stealthily as possible out of the sick tent as to not awake his man. Though he did not usually consider himself a subtle character, he could adapt to the situation. The last thing he needed was a kind, thoughtful and considerate voice urging him to take care of himself. There were too many important things to do. 

He tested his feet and pushed experimentally down on the ground. They seemed to work this time, which was a definite improvement. He still felt that he had been tossed from no less than four consecutive horses, but they were in a war, and being tossed from a horse or two was an extremely survivable event. He managed to stand with some effort. He studied the dark corner of their tent and peered at the few shadows and the flickering silhouette of a fire somewhere outside. He flexed the balls of his feet as a test, and then he smiled.

“My most sincere apologies, dearest Laurens, for I know you only want the best for me, and I simply cannot ignore my duties any longer. I will speak against any punishments on you for letting me escape, as you could not have imagined the furtive depths of my character,” he whispered, and then he hurried as fast as his legs would take him. The first few steps were fraught with danger, and each one came with a healthy twinge of sore pain from his legs. But his feet became accustomed to walking, and he felt it might be safe to even not stare at the ground as he moved. 

The cold of the camp turned the blood in his veins to a dull sludge, but he put that to the side as he made his way to Washington's tent. It seemed much farther away than he remembered. That the army’s size had increased and required doubling the camp seemed ludicrous, but it had never taken what felt like a day’s march to arrive there. 

He drew himself up as straight as his sore back would allow as he approached the tent. The guards knew him well, and one smiled as he approached. 

“The general will be upset if he sees you out in this cold night and not resting, Lieutenant Colonel,” said Michaels, the one on the left and a fellow New Yorker. “Though it seems unlikely that anyone including himself could convince you to take a rest.” 

“Is he available to see me, sir?” Alexander asked, suppressing a smile. 

“Let him in,” came the voice from inside the tent.

The guards moved aside. 

It was a moderately well-lit tent even in the dark night, and with good reason - maps and papers were stacked everywhere and interspersed with several large pieces of furniture as well as a fair number of chests in various states of unpackedness. Several chairs sat around in the tent, including a few particularly comfortable-looking ones around a large center table, two of which were presently occupied. 

“I presume you left Laurens sleeping in the hospital next to you,” said Lafayette, seated in the chair next to Washington, “As I suspect he would have tied you down had he been awoken.” 

“Major General,” Alexander said, offering a friendly smile to Lafayette before returning his attention to Washington. “Your Excellency. I apologize for being remiss in my duties. I will return immediately to your service.” 

“You’ll do no such thing,” Washington said, and he gestured to an empty seat. “You fought off a fever tough enough to destroy an entire regiment, and you’ll be sleeping as much as you can in the upcoming days before the battle, so your strength is restored for when we need you.” 

Alexander sat in the offered chair. His legs twitched and ached, as if they only now realized the strain they were under. It might have been the most comfortable chair he had ever sat in. 

“Excellency, I have already been away for---” 

He realized he had no idea what day it was.

He was saved by the tent flap opening. He did not need to turn to know it was Laurens. In fact, he could perfectly picture Laurens’ peeved expression. A glance confirmed his hypothesis as completely accurate. 

“General, Hamilton is conscious,” Laurens announced, in a vaguely resigned tone of voice. Lafayette chuckled, and Washington grinned. 

“I would not have expected you to do the impossible, like stopping this young man from working himself to death,” Washington said, gesturing again, and Laurens looked relieved as he sat. 

“You have been sleeping for four days,” Lafayette said after a pause. “You passed out mid-march and were running a fever hot enough to heat this tent. We set up camp shortly after. The Lieutenant Colonel--” he gestured to Laurens -- "has been taking exquisite care of you. He also informed us of your desperate attempt to single-handedly destroy the medical tent in revenge for sheltering you. Luckily, he was able to aid the tent in it’s darkest hour.” 

Alexander remembered being held. 

“Four days?” Alexander stared at each one of them in turn. They all had the same army-ragged expression that he was now thoroughly familiar with. Laurens’ dark eyes were etched with worry; Lafayette looked a little smug about his joke, though that failed to hide a deep anxiety about their situation; Washington watching him with concern, mixed with some relief and the ever-present pressure of being the general of the army. Four days seemed like an eternity. The last thing he remembered was the march. They had been in a storm. It had to have been a snowstorm, although part of him recalled a hurricane with inarguable clarity. 

“How are you feeling?” Washington asked. 

It was a difficult question. He felt like he had been recently surprise-attacked by a cannon that had grown arms and thoroughly beaten him all over with iron fists. That seemed like a bad answer. He was clearly not fine, which would have been ideal. 

“I am a soldier, Excellency. Soldiers do not usually operate in excellent shape.” 

It was a good answer. He must have been feeling better. 

Washington studied him for a long moment.

“I do have orders for you, after all.”

Alexander perked up. 

“Go to that table over there --” He gestured to a small end-table and a little chair off to the side of the tent -- “and pick up that pick that pen and paper, and write to your wife explaining how you were dreadfully ill, and you are on limited duty until you recover, and you are going to spend some time refreshing your correspondence with your friends and family on your commander’s orders.” 

His shoulders drooped. 

“I could at least transcribe your letters, sir?”

“Depending on the quality of your letter to your wife, I may permit you to transcribe my letters.” 

Hot frustration replaced the ache in Alexander’s bones. He frowned and sat up straighter. “General, certainly there are things to be done around the camp, especially with the battle so near--” 

“Yes, and those things will be handled by members of my staff who have not nearly been struck dead,” Washington looked at Laurens, who saluted, “As for you, Major General, you are dismissed, but if I could heap another task upon your burdened shoulders--” 

“Of course, sir.” Lafayette snapped to attention. 

“I am putting you in charge of Hamilton starting tomorrow morning. Be sure he is not sneaking around doing work he was not ordered to do. Maybe give him some small task to do so he does not drive you completely from your wits with his chatter.” 

Alexander only partially squashed a noise of protest. 

“I came to your beautiful country to do the impossible, General. It is my great honor to look after your man.” 

The smile Alexander heard in Lafayette’s voice made him clench his teeth in frustration as the Frenchman left the tent. He did not need a babysitter, and certainly not one of Lafayette's rank or importance. He was more than capable of doing his work and making sure he didn’t die. That Washington didn’t believe that and that _Lafayette thought it was a joke_ made him almost dizzy with anger.

“General---” he started. 

“I believe I have made yourself exceptionally clear, especially for a man of great intellect like yourself.” 

Dismissive. Alexander clenched his fists in his gloves. 

“Lieutenant Colonel, find this man something to eat and some whiskey, and then you are dismissed for the evening.” 

Laurens nodded, saluted and left. 

Washington returned to studying the map in front of him and scribbling down in his journal. Alexander stared at the ground, then rebelliously at the side table where he had been assigned. His feet wanted to move that way, but something stopped them. 

“Your Excellency, you cannot expect me to sit here and write of nothing of importance when we are so close to battle. You know as well as I do that there is no better---” 

“Alexander,” The edge in the general’s voice stopped him in mid-sentence. He sat back in the chair and found it suddenly hard to keep eye contact with the other man. “You have no idea how ill you have been. You have no idea how much we worried about you as you shivered and kicked off your blankets and froze and shuddered. You were close enough to death that we nearly considered letting your wife know you had passed.” There was an undeniable sharpness there that held Alexander’s attention, like seeing a bear in the forest. He realized all of a sudden that this was not just his commanding officer, but his friend talking as well. 

“If you continue to run around in this cold, barely recovered, you will die. This cause _needs you_. I need you. The marquis needs you. Your wife needs you. Laurens needs you. I know you know that, despite your desperate and repeated attempts to throw your life away for the sake of your blasted legacy. I will be damned if I permit your stubborn foolishness to be your death. So you will sit in that chair and you will write to your wife discussing how you are on reduced duty because you are recovering from a terrible fever, and if I hear another complaint or ‘But, sir-’ until that letter is complete, I will see that you are punished for being insubordinate.” 

The threat - a very real threat, based on the fury in the general’s eyes - hung between them. 

Washington waited. 

“Yes, your Excellency,” Alexander said. 

“Good,” Washington said, and then he went back to his map without another word. 

Alexander slunk over to the side table. He stared at the paper. It was hard to look at the empty surface. The pen wavered in and out of focus. He thought of Eliza - beautiful, waiting at home for him. He thought of Angelica. He thought words, and his hand moved without him having to think about it. 

He was writing about some particular thing Laurens had said a few days ago when his train of thought was distracted by the sound of a throat clearing. His head snapped up to see the very man he was writing about standing in front of him with his hands filled. Seeing Laurens holding a food and a flask was even better than just seeing Laurens with his hands empty.

“Leave the rations with Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton and you are dismissed for the night,” Washington said, without looking up. 

Alexander smiled and stood with some difficulty. There was no face that could make him feel better. Just the thought of knowing it had been Laurens looking out for him when he had been ill - it made something suspicious and warm bloom in his chest, like a wildflower. He had some trouble identifying it exactly, but it was familiar, and it reminded him of Eliza. 

He closed his eyes and tried to recall four missing days. There had been a storm. There was ice. There was a hurricane. 

Or maybe there had been nothing. It was hard to say. 

He remembered the eye. There had been calm. He had been held and lulled him to sleep. He had been wrapped in a gentle embrace. That was the only certainty of the missing time. 

“I have some rations for you, Hamilton,” Laurens said, and he dropped the bag next to Alexander’s chair. “And some whiskey.” he offered a flask. 

Alexander took a swig and felt the sharp burn of it in his throat. He glanced over to the general, who appeared deeply invested in the correspondence he was reading. By now, Alexander knew the general quite well and had no doubt than man had half an ear cocked in their direction. Part of him knew that Laurens should be on his way for all of their sakes - he needed to write his letter, the general would want to read in silence, and Laurens would have other work to do. There was a seemingly long second of silence, disturbed only by Washington's ruffling of papers. 

He could not help it. He spoke. “Dear Laurens, I did not mean to embarrass you…” 

“I should have known you would have intended to evade me. That I fell asleep is a mark against my character, especially given the challenge of making you do something other than work.” 

“I would never seek to make a mark against your character.” He frowned. “I would never seek to make a strike of any kind against you. Certainly, you are aware. But there are things to be done, and they must be done. I will not make notice of you---” 

“Pray do not pay attention to it, my friend,” he said, smiling a little. Alexander felt helpless to do anything but smile back. “No one would hold me responsible for being unable to stop you from doing something you wanted to do.” 

“I did not wish to indicate to others that you were inattentive.” 

Laurens patted his shoulder. His hand was warm through the ragged coat. “I am certain others saw my task as impossible. They will not look down upon me for failing as a mortal might.” 

“I would have made you seem godlike, had I known.” His voice was gentle. 

Laurens shook his head and stepped back. “Write your letter, Alexander,” he said, and he pressed his hand against the man’s forehead like he was a babe. The hand was cold, but somehow he felt better anyway. His pains settled. The exhaustion lifted, if only for a moment. 

Then he pulled away and left the tent, leaving Alexander's chest aching in a way that seemed nothing like a horse had kicked him. 

He ended the paragraph and segued quickly into the part of his sickness where it had seemed like an angel of calm had come over him. He was not sure he would have awoken at all, if not for the eye.


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Marquis was patient, and at no time did he suggest they hurry or demand he speed up.

It was bright when he woke. The tent was empty, and everything, to his great disappointment, still ached. Ink was smeared on his arm where he had put it down on the paper to rest his eyes on for just a moment. 

He reviewed where he had left off (talking about Washington) and ended the paragraph and the letter as quick as he could manage. The ink did not look too bad despite that he had slept on it; it was still reasonably legible, and he had sent worse letters. While it did not excite him to be babysat by Lafayette all day, that was his command, so that was what he would do. He could not control the tasks he would be given, but he would still do them to the best of his ability. 

He ate the bread and water that had been left for him by some mysterious benefactor likely named John Laurens, wishing bitterly for coffee. He gathered his confidence and strength, staring at the tent flaps. He stepped outside. 

As if by magic, Lafayette appeared on his horse in front of the tent. He reached down and dropped a spare coat that had been hanging from the saddle horn to Alexander. 

“You are late,” Lafayette said. 

Alexander opened his mouth to form an apology. 

“Good. That means you are improving. My father used to say sleep is a key element for improving one’s health.” 

Had he just been complimented for sleeping late? Perhaps nearly dying from fever should be a more common event. 

“Wear my spare jacket. The general will be extremely unhappy if you die under my watch. Did you eat breakfast?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good. We’ll be inspecting the camp for most of the day. There’s some paper and a pen in my saddlebag for you.” 

Alexander put the jacket on and retrieved the items without noting this was usually a task assigned to General Washington. The jacket was surprisingly warm and a little big, though he reflected it might look too odd if he were to properly button it. He was not, after all, a major general. He at least at the sense to remove the bright gold epaulets. 

Their work started. He had been on several of these types of inspections with Washington, and he knew them to usually go a lot quicker than this one was going. He thought of suggesting they hurry, but Washington’s fury from last night and the threat of insubordination stopped him. It was fine all the same, because occasionally he would be too dizzy, and would have to put his hand on the flank of Lafayette’s horse, pen falling from his grasp. Once, things got a little blurry, and only surreptitiously sitting down and suppressing the forceful urge to vomit stopped him from losing consciousness. But the Marquis was patient, and at no time did he suggest they hurry or demand he speed up. Instead, the Frenchman lingered and caught up on gossip and boasted about France and talked about nothing while Alexander put himself back together. He could not help but be jealous of Lafayette’s seemingly endless well of energy, especially when every step, more and more, became an immense challenge.

It was enough like working that he didn’t complain. 

“You’ll never find a nurse as caring as the Lieutenant Colonel,” Lafayette said as they ate lunch in his tent. In addition to their usual bread and whiskey, he had procured some sort of special French bread, which Alexander was too exhausted to point out tasted suspiciously (and familiarly) stale. They also ate dried meat, which he strongly suspected was horse jerky. Chewing was a surprising effort.

“My Laurens?” he replied without thinking, because pretending that Laurens was anything but his was a daunting effort with so little energy, especially given that the Marquis was his close friend. But talking about Laurens was one of his favorite things, so he did not complain about the odd way to start the conversation. “He is the most dearest to me, and hopefully I him - I know without question I would provide him the same exquisite care I am sure he provided to me.” 

“Your Laurens, _oui_.” Lafayette gave him an odd sort of look, like he was prepared to dispense with some sage advice for Alexander, despite that he was actually younger. He knew that Lafayette was wealthy and educated, but it didn’t make it smart any less when Lafayette pretended he had so much more life experience. He waited for the Frenchman to say something condescending. 

There was nothing.

“Is there something about Laurens I can shed some additional light on?” he said in the uncomfortable silence. 

“No, I know him quite well.” This was true - when Lafayette could escape his duties, he was one of their regular drinking partners. “I was simply commenting on the quality of the care.” 

“I see.” 

There was something unsaid about Laurens here that Alexander was having a hard time understanding in his current state. He had a feeling he was being insulted, but it was difficult to identify, nonetheless take, the next step. He turned the conversation over in his head a few times, trying to untangle the words and identify the deeper meaning. 

Lafayette cleared his throat. “Will you write me help a letter to my wife? With luck, she will think me as eloquent as you are and fall even deeper in love with me when I return a war hero.” 

“Is this Washington’s way to get me to write more letters?” 

Lafayette looked at him for a second, and then uttered a surprised laugh. “You are speaking to a man who crossed the sea against the wishes of his father-in-law, and against a law specifically created to stop him from joining this war. Believe me when I say I am the last person who will demand you write letters to your relatives. But I have read your work, and I now have the opportunity to put your vast talents to my advantage.” He cleared up the food and their utensils as he spoke, then poured each of them a small glass of wine. Then, he reached into a chest and pulled out a pen and some paper. 

Alexander laughed at the mental image. 

“Now, what is the best way to express to her our efforts in the war?” 

“Maybe leave out hungry and freezing?” 

“ _Au contraire,_ Hamilton. We must discuss our misery at length, so she will understand the enormous resilience and endurance of her husband. Also, when I return, she may pay more attention to me knowing the immense pressure I have existed under for so long.” 

“But what if she realizes that you’re accustomed to eating freezing bread and low-quality jerky, so she doesn’t provide for you knowing how low your standards may have dropped?” 

“That is a good point.” 

And so it went. 

This was good practice for Alexander’s written French, which was not as good as his spoken French. They would scheme up a sentence or idea that they wished to add to the letter, and then Alexander would add his writing talents to it, growing the idea into a work of art. Then, Lafayette would provide him French grammar and spelling pointers to make sure there were no spelling errors in the letter (which, of course, would be unacceptable). Along the way, he learned more about the Frenchman. 

His wife’s name was Adrienne, and she was the most beautiful, thoughtful, kind woman that had ever been born, according to Lafayette. He was as wealthy and educated as Alexander had already suspected, and owned large tracts of land and several manors. 

“Do you think she will understand, in time, why I had to leave her and fight with you and the general?” Lafayette asked in native French as they discussed some battle in the letter. “I came to your aid because I knew it was required of me. My uncle wished for me to take a position guarding some mountain in Italy.” He scoffed. “How can a man of any spirit or dignity sit, satisfied with one’s life, staring at a mountain, when they know there is a true fight to liberate free peoples from tyranny? How can one be content staring into a snowy peak, knowing there are most esteemed leaders like General Washington who still need soldiers? Nowhere other than here does the freedom in men’s heart sing so strongly to be released. I knew then, as I know now, that this war is sewn into my destiny as threads are sewn into one’s coat. I hope she will understand I did not go so far to hurt her or our children, but that I had to come here. It was not optional.” 

Alexander was vaguely aware of a charmed smile that had grown upon his face. He was not accustomed to being the dazzled in the orator-crowd relationship. He was accustomed to dazzling. 

“I am proud to know a man of your character, Lafayette,” he replied, a little slower, making sure his French made sense. It provided him a good opportunity to gather his thoughts. “You are a truly magnificent example of a man, and your courage, discipline, integrity and spirit reflects the revolution more accurately than many born here.” 

Lafayette laughed. “Alexander, if I may be so personal--” 

“Please.” 

“You, the general, and the many others I have grown to know and think of fondly only prove to me that I was destined to be a part of this cause. I would not meet men of such exemplary character had it not been meant to be. And, if I may add, it would be a great loss, both personally and to the cause, to see you leave us. I understand why the general is how he is about you.” 

“Your compliments honor me more than I say,” Alexander said, a genuine smile on his face. “But about your wife, I am sure she will understand and support your cause, especially as I imagine you intend to return significantly wealthier and with more renown. In addition, you will be the wisest husband in France. No one will know more about the glorious new nation across the sea.”

“I hope so,” he said, in a doubting voice. But he took a breath and steeled his expression into something more resolute. “Please finish this up and we will check the weapons stores, the stables, and report to the general. What is a good end?” 

“Perhaps you could summarize the depths of your longing for her, on account of her wit, beauty, intelligence, nobility, and any other positive characteristics you can think of. Certainly these droll continentals do not compare.” 

Lafayette laughed and scribbled at the bottom of the letter. Then he blew on the ink to dry it and put the folded letter in his pocket. “I hope you will visit me in France after the unrest there is settled. I don’t know when that will be, but I hope it will be soon. You would be most welcome. Perhaps you could bring your wife, and Laurens.”

He could hardly imagine a more wonderful vacation. It seemed like having Eliza and Laurens in one place might be too much for his heart to handle. He dared, just for a moment, to imagine this event - staring at the beautiful French countryside, drinking high-quality wines with Lafayette, Laurens and his wonderful wife. “If there is not too much to be done, and it is safe, it would be my greatest honor. But I would have to be the luckiest man on the continent for such an event to occur.” 

Lafayette smiled a sly little smile. 

“You are a very lucky man, from what I have already heard and seen,” he said, and he put his jacket on, and buckled his sabre to his belt. 

** 

The supply numbers were dismal (as usual), but sitting down and writing the letter had added some energy to his stride. He handed off the two letters to the messenger postman and said a prayer that Lafayette's letter would be able to get across the sea. It seemed like an eternity away, to him. He could only imagine how homesick Lafayette felt, in those quiet moments where one’s mind was not otherwise occupied. He certainly missed Eliza, but she was only a few days away, if he hurried. Adrienne would be months and months of sitting on a ship, held captive by the wind, for them to be reunited. The distance only compounded the level of respect he had for the Frenchman. 

“Wait out here - don’t run off and accomplish anything monumental,” Lafayette said, as they approached Washington’s tent. 

“I can’t go inside with you, sir?” The announcement took him a little by surprised. 

“That is correct, Lieutenant Colonel. It shouldn’t be long. Watch my reins.” 

He fought the frown away and nodded, looking at the horse he was holding. The poor thing looked as cold, hungry and miserable as the rest of them. He gave the horse a consoling pat on the neck, then turned to study the camp. Perhaps if he was lucky, he would be dismissed earlier to find Laurens and catch up with him. Even considering the brief conversation they had had yesterday, it was the smallest they had talked in a long time. It always set Alexander’s mind at ease to break down his goings-ons of the day and hear feedback. Laurens always had something helpful to add or some insightful comment to make, or was able to point out something in his story that made everything clear. Laurens always had good ideas about what an action or phrase or decision meant. He tried to see if he could see his friend anywhere, but he came up empty-handed. 

He was cold and tired, despite that he'd barely done anything. His head felt foggy, and he closed his eyes to try and resettle his thoughts. He had half a mind to stroll around the side of the tent and eavesdrop on what the two men were talking about. How could it be anything but him, that they would exclude him from the conversation? They were talking about his illness. They had to be. Washington trusted him with everything else related to the war. He'd heard things he knew could never be repeated. 

But the subtlety involved seem too difficult for his current state, and plus, he would never get away with such an action while watching Lafayette’s horse. And leaving Lafayette’s horse was obviously out of the question. 

He forced his thoughts back into clarity as the tent flaps ruffled. 

“Major General. Excellency,” he bowed his head as Lafayette and Washington exited the tent. 

“You have your orders,” Washington said to Lafayette, who took the offered reins of his horse and saluted the general. He offered a wave to Alexander, then clucked his tongue and lead the horse away. This had the unpleasant side effect of Alexander having to stand on his own, which suddenly seemed challenging. He locked his knees and forced his legs to hold him. The alternate option, collapsing in a heap in public in front of the general, was utterly unacceptable. 

A brief hope that he might do something important rose in his chest now that it was just him and Washington. This cleared his fogged head a little and sharpened his focus. 

“Son,” Washington started, which dashed the hope entirely. Washington never called him _son_ unless he was going to give an order Alexander wasn't going to like. “Look at me.” 

Alexander raised his eyes to meet the general’s face. Washington looked tired and worn, but Alexander could see the fire that burned in those eyes. That fire was the reason they would win. That fire would power them away from oppressive tyranny and into a future where they could craft something new and wonderful. That fire was the fire of the revolution. In the face of such a flame, it was hard to turn away. 

“Go to your tent and go to sleep. That’s an order. I’ll send Laurens to look after you. Do not argue with me. Dismissed.” 

The general strode into the tent without another word. Alexander stood there for another moment, and with a resigned sigh, turned and headed back towards the his tent. He grudgingly admitted to himself that closing his eyes for a few moments sounded marvellous and might help out with his aching bones and his fogged head. He did not, however, think it would be better than being ordered to see Laurens. 

He found their ragged little tent in the rows and stepped inside. The flimsy fabric didn’t hold much heat, but it did a decent job of protecting them from the sharp breeze. He studied their collective mess with satisfaction before dropping into his chair and reviewing the essay he had been mid-paragraph before their last march. He had been writing about the government. He paused for a few moments to recover the train of thought, then began to write. 

The pen seemed heavy, though, and the words blurred together if he looked at them for too long. He was having trouble remembering the issue he had been discussing. He put the pen down and rubbed his eyes. Maybe if he just laid down for a second, he would be ready to finish the essay. 

He laid down on his bedroll and pulled Lafayette’s spare coat more tightly around him, along with his shabby blanket. The complex concepts slipped farther away, instead of coming closer, but trying to reach out to them just made them sneak farther away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the best of my knowledge, it is completely true that [Lafayette's family attempted to bar him from joining the revolution](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gilbert_du_Motier,_Marquis_de_Lafayette#Finding_a_cause%22). But when you're a rich marquis, you just buy your own damn ship. Being rich must be awesome. 
> 
> I get hearts in my eyes when I get email comment notifications. Please know that your comments are valuable and important to me!


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do not be unreasonable with me, Laurens."
> 
> “I am not the one in this tent being unreasonable, Hamilton."

**

The first thing he became aware of was the confusing warmth of his feet. His feet had not been warm in a very long time. While it was an improvement, it was a strange one - one did not usually expect their extreme fevers to lead to warm feet. Maybe he was dead.

He didn’t feel dead. He imagined that being dead would result in him being less sore. Perhaps if he was currently dying, the least he could do first was establish the cause of his warm feet.

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of the tent. This further cemented the likelihood he was not dead - surely the afterlife would have more impressive dwellings than his ragged living quarters. He felt better than he’d felt in a while, though. This was good. Dying would be a severe blow to the revolutionary cause, and would have the worse effect of upsetting Laurens. 

Where was Laurens? He momentarily forget about the status of his feet to focus on his fellow aide-de-camp. Washington had told him Laurens was going to look after him. Washington was dooming him to the fate of being nursemaided like he was an infant and coddled like he was a rich child. Laurens would get in trouble for taking extra food for him, or something equally unnecessary. 

He would have to find the man to make sure he was not doing anything stupid on his behalf. He was improving just fine, which was clear, and he did not need any additional extra treatment. That Washington had dismissed him before the sun had even gone down in the dead of winter was embarrassment enough. He mentally listed out all of the places Laurens could be and organized them in his head. 

With a grunt, he sat up, pulling Lafayette’s coat tightly around him to protect against the chill. 

Laurens was there. Laurens was sleeping softly in his chair, his chest covered by one of their thin blankets. Where was Laurens’ coat? The thought of Laurens being sick wrapped around his heart like a vice and crushed the breath out of him. Against his bidding, he thought of Laurens laying in the sick tent shivering and sweating - 

Laurens’ skin pale and gray with fever, shining with sweat -

Laurens trying to vomit and nothing coming up - 

Laurens with the pallor of a corpse - 

Their empty tent. 

A desperate sound squeezed itself, unbidden, from the pit of Alexander’s stomach. 

Laurens’ eyes fluttered open. For a second, he cast Alexander a bewildered glance, and then his expression shifted into familiar fond annoyance. 

“Are you sure you cannot find some way to cover that awful thing? I had once thought it could look no worse than on that overdressed peacock, but you, as usual, have gone above and beyond your peers.” A little grin slid across his lips. 

“Where is your coat?” Alexander asked, without acknowledging the question. “It will be no use to his Excellency if you are to catch a fever.” 

Laurens frowned. “It is protecting the man in this tent who has _already_ caught a fever.” 

Alexander looked to see the coat in question wrapped firmly around his boots. 

It all made sense now. He had solved the mystery of the warm feet. If he was going to die, he could go now. 

Though he was now sure that possibility was not looming.

“My dear,” he said, with a frown, “There is no circumstance in which the comfort of my feet takes precedence over the very, very important activities in your chest cavity.” 

He reached down to unfold the jacket from his ragged boots. A familiar chill found his toes. 

“My chest appears to be functioning vastly better than any part of you, Hamilton. And given that I have been explicitly commanded to be your caretaker, it is well within my power to decide to give you my coat.” Laurens sat back in his chair. “Do you know that I have mistaken you for Lafayette twice now? Imagine my surprise when I see our most decorated Frenchman asleep in our tent.” 

“For a man’s assigned caretaker, you seem to take great offence to my attempts to stay warm.” Alexander smirked at him. “Or are you merely jealous of the attentions the Marquis has bestowed upon me? I admit that I would be concerned if I wished to charm someone who was also viewed fondly by someone with such great power, wealth and land.” 

He sat up a little straighter and shrugged himself properly into Lafayette’s coat. 

“Ah, yes, a true and noble showing of French elegance,” Laurens said dryly, “I find the clearest example of his good upbringing to be when he drinks too much wine and it dribbles down his face like a newborn.” 

“It is true that he is a man of endless charm and wit, like when he gets so upset he forgets what language he is speaking in, and it is only with great effort I can discern every second or third word in his newly created tongue.” 

“How could I not be concerned if such a man is ingratiating himself with one of my charges?” 

They looked at each other for a long, silent moment. 

Then they both burst out laughing. 

Alexander took this opportunity to throw Laurens’ jacket back at him. The article hit the man square in this face and, caught by surprise, he nearly fell out of his chair.

“A man possessing such rude manners could never be taught appropriately to fit in with such a family of high birth like the noble Frenchmen of Lafayette,” muttered Laurens, but he put his coat back on without complaint.

Alexander laid back down on the cot. Being here with Laurens, talking about nothing, feeling his charm wash over him - it was, in his esteemed opinion, the best remedy. He could feel it working at this very moment. Laurens brought warmth into his life more than any coat. No one understood his troubles and plights better. Laurens had laughed and the light of his personality had banished the fever from his flesh. 

He would have to note his improvement to the general. He sat up again and concentrated on standing. 

“I presume that you would only be moving to your chair if you feel you are well enough to get up,” Laurens said, his voice now serious. 

Alexander frowned and stood. Only a tinge of dizziness lingered on the end of his consciousness. “I am feeling much better. Surely, my nurse can see it would benefit our shared cause if I were to alert his Excellency. I will return immediately, pending he does not have further orders for me. Then, I would love to hear all about the events of the days I have missed, and especially your goings-on.” 

“What would most benefit our shared cause is for you to sit in your tent and rest. Especially because I am aware the general ordered you to stay in your tent and rest. I will tell you all about my goings-on now, if that is what you desire to hear. It is has been quite busy, with the upcoming battle. I am sure some of the details would interest you.” Laurens’ gaze was steady on him. Unsubtly, he picked up his chair and moved it in front of the tent opening, and then sat down in it. “And do not ask me to alert the general for you, for I know you will simply take the opportunity to hide in Lafayette’s quarters and work yourself to death.” 

Alexander frowned at the gesture. It was true that there was little more that he wanted than to hear about the events of Laurens’ past few days, especially the ones that had escaped his own consciousness completely. But there was also the matter that he could put such a thing before keeping Washington updated on his status, and perhaps, if he was lucky, the general would see he was well to receive orders. He knew, of course, that he was ill, and that he would needed to be attended to. But he had been fine walking next to Lafayette’s horse all morning. He did not need to be banned from going outside. 

Not when there was so much to do.

“Do not be unreasonable with me, Laurens. I am feeling perfectly capable to transcribe letters and create messages. I am not going to going to run off around the camp. I simply do not know what the upcoming messages are required, and I will go to the general and find out. Then, I will return, and you may nursemaid me at your pleasure.” 

“I am not the one in this tent being unreasonable, Hamilton. It is too cold for you to leave this tent.” Laurens stood, which brought him a few inches taller than Alexander, his true height bowed by the low tent ceiling. Alexander could see a dark passion glowing in those eyes, along with all the other things about Laurens that made his heart pound. Half of him was thoroughly irritated that his friend was in his way of working. But the other half of him could not help but admire that intensity, and look for other ways to bring it to the forefront. 

Laurens in the middle of a passionate argument about anything - slavery, his health, or otherwise - was one of Alexander’s favorite ways for him to be. Laurens was even-keeled and contemplative, and not prone to anger. But to see him so worked up, so full of energy and life, grew a dark heat in the pit of Alexander’s stomach. To watch Laurens’ eyes glitter with conviction and an angry flush appear in the man’s cheeks was a sight to behold. 

Alexander took a step forward. Laurens’ frown deepened into a scowl. 

“I will hold you down until you fall asleep in that cot if I have to, Alexander.” 

“John, I am fine. I am certainly better than I have been in the past few days, and I do not need you lording over me like this. If anything, this kind of attention may worsen my health simply from me attempting to evade you." 

“Alexander," Laurens said, and his voice had a sharp, peculiar quality to it that Alexander could not immediately identify. It was as if he was about to make some dire proclamation. Anger had given him a flush in his cheeks, and his hands were clenched at his sides. His eyes gleamed in the dim light of the tent, and there was a tense muscle jumping in his jaw. "You do not know how sick you were. I watched you shudder and struggle for days. You did not see me when I went to Lafayette to deliver him a message, only to see your body draped over his saddle like he wanted to give you a proper burial. You do not know what I felt when the general told me you were struck by a vicious fever and needed to be out of the cold as soon as possible. To see you like that, in the middle of our march, in the middle of this god-forsaken war, in this god-forsaken weather with barely our own coats and boots - it was like there was no more reason remaining for me to live. When I saw you there, I wasn't thinking about this cause. Or the general, or my family, or anything. I thought you were dead, and I wanted to be dead too." 

Alexander stared. He staggered back into his chair, unprepared and undefended from the force of the speech. Laurens’ expression was uncharacteristically intense, and his eyes were filled with remembered terror. Alexander could see how well Laurens could recall that moment. He could imagine how he would feel had their positions be reversed. 

To see Laurens’ body, thrown around like a burlap sack, motionless -- 

"You cannot die on me, Alexander Hamilton,” Laurens continued, and a furious energy leaked into his voice, infusing the words with a strength Alexander was finding it difficult not to be overwhelmed with. “I will not let you do anything that will speed you towards that course. I will sit on your legs and wrap you in twine to keep you in this tent. I know how hard you work. Everyone knows how hard you work. But right now, you have to stop. If you don't stop, you will die. You will leave me alone. You will leave Washington, Lafayette, Eliza - all of us. Is that what you want? Are some pointless letters that anyone could write worth leaving me alone for?" 

"John....." Alexander went looking for his voice and found it missing. He would never say that he was not selfish, or that he did not have ambitions to improve himself. Of course, his legacy was of the utmost importance. But something about how Laurens laid down that information - something about his passion, or his fury, or the heartbreaking worry Alexander could hear buried there - it made him feel like a monster. 

"John," he started again, and his voice was thick and weak, all at the same time. "I would never want to leave you alone. You bring light into my life. I am sorry to have upset you so deeply when you saw my body on Lafayette's saddle. Of course, it was not my intention to be there. Please do not mistake my intentions as acts with the goal to hurt you." 

"It doesn't matter what your intentions are," Laurens continued, anger growing in the audible quiver in his voice. "When you are dead, no one will say 'Well, it was not his intention to die, but he ran around in a bitter winter with a fever.' No one will say 'certainly he did not intend to cause abject agony to all who care for him, but what can be expected when one has a job to do?'" He punctuated the last three words with a snarl. "They will say you are dead. And you will be dead. You will be gone. It will be me, Lafayette, and Mulligan at the bar. You will no longer be able to deliver a letter on Washington's behalf. You will leave your dear Eliza a widow. And for what? For this all-consuming, obsessive pride in always working? For your addiction to improving your legacy? Your legacy will be a pointless death by an idiot who, despite his great brilliance and unending charisma, was too blind to listen to the messages sent to him by his body, by his friends, and by his commanding officer.”

Alexander sat in silence. He felt cold. Not only cold by the chill weather they were experiencing, but a cold which had sunk into his heart and crystallized the feeling there. He could not look at Laurens. He stared at his boots and wiggled his toes, trying to direct his attentions away from a mysterious black mass growing in his chest.

Despite all the things that he had intended to do, he could not see or think of anything but what Laurens must have looked and felt like that first moment seeing his body on Lafayette’s horse. 

This fever would not conquer him. He would not allow it to do so. He could not allow it to do so because of Laurens. 

"I....." he started, and for all the words that had come so easily to him, so many times, there was nothing for him here. His voice was barely above a hesitant whisper. "I am sorry, my dearest. I did not mean to upset you so greatly. I will retire to my cot." 

"In the name of god and all that this revolution stands for, you certainly will," Laurens said, savagely. 

Alexander lowered himself from from the chair back to his cot and took the blanket that Laurens offered him, pulling them around Lafayette’s coat. The wintry cold did not reach him. It could not even consider punching through the viciousness of Laurens' anger that already raged around him, making mincemeat of his flesh and freezing his blood to ice. 

He closed his eyes and tried not to think about Lauren standing there, the furious rage swirling around him. He was the eye in his own storm. Alexander could not seek shelter there, not when he had already cast himself out of the refuge.


	6. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I fear you are withholding something about Laurens from me,” Alexander said, finally, the frown deepening. “You look as if you wish to say something unpleasant and do not wish to upset me. Has he confided in you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A toast to ~~the groom~~ , Wise Lafayette™, my favorite trope. As always, your continued comments and kudos keep me going even though it is freezing outside.

**

He awoke feeling very queer indeed. He did not want Laurens to know he was awake, so he laid in his cot, still. He turned over the words in his mind and thought about what Laurens had said. To want to improve one’s legacy was not selfish. But if it meant leaving Laurens- -

He had never felt so opposed to self-promotion before. 

To be the best, he would have to work the hardest. He had not been given his position out of favoritism, and he would not keep it if he did not provide excellent service. He would never lead men onto the field if he did not prove it would be foolhardy to _not_ give him that position. 

He wasn’t there yet.

He could not allow himself to be stopped by anything. He had to be relentless. Unceasing. Unending. He would have to stamp himself so clearly over this cause that he could not be denied his place in history. He had to show that he would never stop marching. 

But what it must have looked like, when Laurens saw his body -- 

Alexander knew his self-improvement would come at the cost of other men. He knew that he would have to create his position by carving power away from men who deserved it less. They were in a war. He had killed other men to elevate his standing and promote his cause. He was not blind enough to pretend that others would go unharmed in the rise to power that he was destined to embrace. 

But Laurens was different. Laurens was not undeserving of what providence gave him. Laurens fought and earned his status. Laurens had earned his respect and enough standing with him to sit in his heart next to the dream of independence. To hurt Laurens in the quest to improve his legacy was unfathomable. 

And yet, he seemed to be doing so.

But there was work to do - 

But if he had hurt Laurens - 

He squeezed his eyes shut and gathered himself. He could sense the darkness in the tent and the chill weather creeping in on them from all sides. He didn’t know what time it was, but the noises of the camp had greatly settled. 

“Laurens?” 

“ _Non._ ” 

He opened his eyes. Lafayette was sitting in Laurens’ chair, peering at him. In the man’s lap was his coat, his fingers wrapped around a needle in mid-sew. Two sad candles had been placed on the table next to his chair to provide light for his work, and they cast an odd glow on his face. 

“Where is Laurens?” 

Lafayette shrugged and resumed sewing. 

Alexander frowned and slowly sat up. A wave of dizziness hit him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath to try and center himself. 

He could clearly imagine this conversation in his head. 

_  
Lafayette, can you watch this fool for me?_

_Oui, but is he not_ your _fool?_

 _Yes, and I cannot bear to be around him in this present time. He needs not to know where I am where he awakes._

“Lafayette,” Alexander said, “I fear I may have upset my Laurens.” 

“Now what could a man of your great brilliance and quick wit have done to upset another?” Lafayette asked, dryly. He had clearly been already briefed on the situation.

Hamilton ignored the tone of his voice and continued. “He does not understand how much there is to be done. How can I explain to him that without completing these tasks, I can never be more than what I am now?” 

Lafayette admired his work in the silent candlelight and then put the coat on, secreting the needle somewhere. 

“But Laurens is too intelligent to not understand the task ahead of us,” he continued, filling the space left by the other man’s silence. “He _must_ know there is work to be done. But then why would he be so upset at my attempts? He - and you - must know that I do not work to hurt him. He is too smart to misinterpret my actions in such a manner.” 

The Frenchman studied him for a long moment in the flickering light. The dark worry lines around his eyes and the shadows cast on his face made him look much older than Alexander knew him to be. Then, he picked up both candles and sat down next to Alexander’s cot. He watched him in the same knowledgable thoughtfulness that Alexander remembered from yesterday. 

“I fear you are withholding something about Laurens from me,” Alexander said, finally, the frown deepening. “You look as if you wish to say something unpleasant and do not wish to upset me. Has he confided in you?” 

Lafayette looked away from him and into the stubby candles. “Laurens cares about you very much, Hamilton.” 

“And I him. This is not a secret. I do not know why you seem so hesitant about providing this information to its subject.” He did not manage to keep all of the irritation out of his voice. 

“How can you be so upset that a man does not want to see you die?” 

“One must be willing to die for the cause. Laurens insults me by protecting me like a schoolchild.” 

“I do not believe the concern is that you will die in battle, _mon ami_. I believe he is worried you will die from your fever, doing something only you would be doing, because any sensible creature would be resting, and while you are brilliant and a remarkable orator, I believe you to be born without a shred of decent sense.” Alexander opened his mouth to take offense, but Lafayette continued, “And if I may add, dying from a fever will probably only result in a small alleyway being named after you.” 

“I require a boulevard,” Alexander retorted. 

Lafayette smiled at him, but it never reached his eyes. It was a dark kind of smile that stirred concern in Alexander’s chest for his friend. 

“Did he tell you he saw your body on my horse?” 

A nod.

“ _Mon dieu_ , I will never forget his face. It was as if a wraith had snuck behind him and slit his spirit from his body in one cut.” He looked pale as he relieved the memory, his eyes distant. “He grabbed your hand and squeezed as if to break your fingers. He looked at me like….” 

He trailed off, looking into the candlelight and letting the silence hang. 

Then he spoke again, in French this time, with a quiet seriousness that kept Hamilton rapt and forced him to listen. “If you are to die, Alexander, we will lose two good men. There is nothing more important to him than you. I do not mean this to speak ill of him, but I - and the general - do not believe Laurens would be valuable to our cause with a broken heart. And to fault him for behavior he shows only because he came so terribly close to losing the thing he holds most dear - you should not do it. You should be honored a man cares so greatly for you that his fear of a world without you overrides all other thoughts and actions.” 

Hamilton held the Frenchman’s gaze in the semidarkness. The sound of the wind ruffled the tent and deepened the quiet when it left. 

“He cared for me when I was unconscious?” 

“I do not overstate when I say God sent an angel to look after you.” 

“Thank you, Lafayette.” 

Lafayette gave him an odd smile. “I am not the one who squeezed water droplets from a frozen towel into your mouth, or wiped sweat from your brow for hours.” 

Alexander closed his eyes and tried to remember these events. He had four missing days he could not account for. He remembered being in the cold march. He remembered the storm. Then, he remembered waking up and nearly toppling the medical tent. There was nothing else there. 

He focused harder. He had been there. The days had passed.

Something felt just out of reach, like dark clouds on the horizon. Something stuck to him like heavy air, making his joints ache. When he reached for it, it pulled away, dissolving into nothing. 

“Is it acceptable if I were to write _while_ in the tent?” He asked. 

“Perhaps,” Lafayette said, and he stood up and took his candles back to Laurens’ desk. 

Alexander put his thoughts to the side and looked over at his chair and desk. The usual pile of papers that not only covered his desk, but spilled off all three sides onto the floor, looked smaller than usual. Laurens had been doing his work for him. He couldn’t stop the frown from curling over his face, but perhaps indicating that he was upset with a reduced workload would dampen the seriousness of his apology for being selfish. 

He took a breath and steadied himself, studying the chair as he would any other opponent. He could feel Lafayette’s gaze on him. 

He stood. His feet wobbled under him. He could not acknowledge that he felt weaker than yesterday, or that perhaps being out in the cold had some affect on him, which was only beginning to bubble up. He could not consider the possibility that he would not recover further. 

“Perhaps you should sit.” The evenness in Lafayette’s voice failed to hide a note of concern, and the Frenchman sat at the edge of his chair, half out of the seat already. “Luckily, I already have some skill in catching you before you hit the ground.” 

“I am fine,” Alexander said, and he took one of the two steps required to get to his desk. He did not realize how far his desk was from his cot; somehow, the cramped living space became expansive when he sought to cross it. 

He could make it. 

He surged forward, barely feeling the second step and pouring himself into his chair like a glass of whiskey. 

The effort surprised him. Just yesterday - had it been yesterday? - he had been able to walk for a few hours. But even sitting here, in this chair, his legs felt weak. Two steps had been an effort. 

“I was better,” he said, because he could feel Lafayette’s judging gaze on him. The Frenchman got up, retrieved his blanket, and draped it around his shoulders. 

“Overcoming an illness as dire as yours is not so easy.” 

“There is no reason for me to stop improving.” He studied the piles of papers on his desk, trying to remember what he had been talking about. On the top of one pile was an anti-slavery essay he had been working on. That would be an easy one to consider. He skimmed the pages, trying to identify what he had been writing about. The words did not blur on the page, if he focused on them. 

“Only that you are only human, like the rest of us, and the human body is not some musket to be repaired and re-oiled with ease. If you are to be well again--”

“I _will_ be well again.” 

Lafayette sighed. “If you are to be well again, you must take care of yourself to the best of your ability in this cursed weather. All else is up to chance, the grace of god, and the strength of your heart.” 

Alexander snorted in disdain, and went to reach for his pen. His arm trembled. Only with effort did he manage to set it into his hand. He cast his eyes on his inkwell and focused. It would not be difficult to dip his pen. This was an act he had been undertaking since he had been a child. 

He reached.

Lafayette caught the inkwell before it could spill all over and set it upright. Alexander dropped the pen in disgust and stared at his essay, unable to suppress a noise of frustration. 

“There is no shame in being ill, _mon ami._ If I beg, will you permit me to help you back into your cot?” 

“Says the man who is perfectly capable of crafting his own letters,” he retorted, bitterly. 

“ _S'il te plait_ , Hamilton.” 

Begrudgingly, he allowed Lafayette to help him back into his cot. 

“Would it improve your mood if I were to go over some updated information from the general and Congress?” 

“I suppose so,” said Alexander, with a sigh. He could not ignore that, despite just waking up, he already felt tired. It was embarrassing for him to think three steps and a conversation had worn him out, but ignoring the truth did not change it. He had one ear listening to Lafayette’s update about where they were with Congress (which was never good - somehow, Congress had come under the assumption they could be a successful army with no food, no supplies, and no blankets), but the rest of his mind wandered back to the missing days. He remembered the storm, and the eye, but outside from that there was nothing. 

He closed his eyes and wracked his brain again. Lafayette lowered his voice, and his French created a rhythmic, relaxing background to him trying to remember. 

It seemed too close for him to be unable to access. He had to continue to reach.


	7. VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He saw his mother standing at the end of the street.

**

He dreamed of the storm.

He dreamed of Christiansted and the devastation there. He dreamed of storefronts and furniture used as weapons, whipped into a rage by wind, crashing through walls and into people. He dreamed of the ocean cresting into their town, down the streets, into their houses and farms. He dreamed of the vicious rain smashing into windows with the sounds of gunfire. He dreamed of the glass littering the streets. He dreamed of debris and stray palm trees. 

He dreamed of the blizzard. He dreamed of the unending snow that suffocated everything. He dreamed of the persistent, eternal cold. He dreamed of the endless march. He dreamed of the knife-like wind that slashed through clothes. 

He dreamed of oppressive heat of the islands and deathly chill of the war. 

He was going to be torn apart. He was going to be found later in shreds and pieces. He was going to be flung like stray debris. He was going to be frozen and discovered in the spring thaw. 

He fought to see through the snow. The darkness clung close to him. The humidity suffocated him. Ice froze in his throat. 

“Goddamnit,” The rain hissed, “He was improving!” 

Thunder boomed. Lightning left pits in the ground. 

He was going to die. He would become nothing. He would be the island. He would be their house. He would be their shop. He would be their tents and barracks. He would be the torrential waves and the endless sea. 

All of a sudden, a great heat overtook him. 

"No, no, no, please no," said the wind, a whisper in his ear.

The ice in his veins began to thaw. Scattered sun broke through dense clouds. 

He took a breath. 

Clean air filled his lungs. 

He grasped for the warmth. It sheltered him from the hail, which landed as harmless raindrops on his skin. It calmed the wind to a gentle breeze. His senses dulled with the weather. Was it the thunder ceasing, or was his hearing fading away?

Was he dying? 

He saw his mother standing at the end of the street. 

He tried to reach out, but something pulled him away.


	8. VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seemed patently absurd to engage in any kind of action that would upset his Laurens any further than he was now, especially considering the great lengths his Laurens had gone to comfort him. Even further, dying seemed so _severe_.

**  


He opened his eyes, but darkness still surrounded him. Darkness and warmth, and the sensation of being held.

Surely he was dead. He was dead, and this was heaven, and it was his mother wrapped around him, and she would sing him the songs she used to sing at night. They would be happy. The cold and the pain and the hunger and the hopelessness and the death would all be gone. He would no longer have to fight every moment of every day. He would be remembered as a noble and valiant soldier. 

He closed his eyes and pulled closer to the warmth. The air was stuffy and hot, and it was hard to breathe, but he could do nothing. His body did not listen to his commands. His body wanted to shut down. It wouldn’t take that much to do so - only a decision against another gulp of thick air. He thought about every breath. His mind was fuzzy and dull and expecting the sound of his mother’s laughter. He would go down the street to the store and see if he could beg some more food for them. He would collect anything that looked like it could be sold. If he was lucky, there would be time for reading after chores. 

His mother’s hand stroked his back. He smiled lazily, thinking of her. “Mother,” he said, but he could barely hear his own voice. It was the voice of a ghost. “Do you need for anything?” 

The hand on his back stopped. It moved to his shoulder and travelled down his arm. It found his face, and tilted his head up. 

His mother’s face began to take shape in the darkness. It was not easy for a spirit to see, but he could manage, with some effort. Her face was odd - he had remembered it being rounder and more cheery, with fewer lines, and --

“Alexander,” a voice said, in a trembling whisper. The hand stroked his cheek. The fingers shook. “I’m not--” 

“You’re not my mother.”

“No.” 

“Who…. are you?” 

The voice made a strangled noise. “I….I’m your Laurens.” 

His Laurens. He knew his Laurens. It was not his mother, no, and there was no replacement for her. But if he had to be accompanied by anyone, and it could not be her, his Laurens was the definite next selection. His Laurens completed him in a way that no other creature did. Perhaps they had been born two halves of a whole, designed only for destiny to bring them together so they could conquer this misery.

His Laurens was the sun in his sky. The clear water of his river. The wildflowers of his meadow. 

“That’s good,” Alexander said, and leaned into the touch of those rough fingers against the stubble of his cheek. His Laurens touched him in a manner that no other man could. “I like my Laurens.” 

His Laurens managed a small smile. Alexander could see the white of teeth in the darkness suddenly appear, then retreat. He wanted to see his Laurens smile more. “I like you too, Hamilton.”

“Your Hamilton,” he said, as a correction. Such a thing only made sense, after all. It was not so much a question - as it was quite clear to him he had been Laurens’ Hamilton for some time - as it was stating the obvious. It was his duty to correct his Laurens when he misspoke. It would be poor form to allow his Laurens to be incorrect. He belonged to his Laurens as much as his Laurens belonged to him. 

“Y-yes,” His Laurens said, his whisper shaking, “Of course. My Hamilton.” 

The hand moved from his face to brush across the top of his hair with infinite kindness. The care of it penetrated the beyond and reminded him of being solid. He could not imagine a life without that touch; to be deprived of it for the rest of eternity seemed like a hellish future. But he knew that to keep it, he would have to remain here. He could not move on and feel the pads of those fingers.

It was a convincing argument to stay. He glanced back at the freezing, starving army. He looked forward to his mother.

He looked back towards his Laurens. 

The dark seemed less dark with his Laurens here. The cold seemed less cold. He could see the color of his Lauren’s vest contrasting with the dirty-white of his undershirt. His Laurens wasn’t wearing his cravat, and it was easy for his eyes to focus on the exposed flesh at his throat.

“My Laurens.” He liked saying it. It sounded good. Natural. Of course, this was his Laurens. His Laurens, wrapped around him in this place that seemed so quiet and dark and hot, that it could not be real. His Laurens’ voice, so near that all they needed was the faintest of whispers. His Laurens’ arms, surrounding him. He liked being this close, so that he could see the freckles that dotted the other man’s skin. He could study them. 

They shook.

His Laurens was shaking. 

He frowned.

“What upsets you so, my Laurens?” He asked. Every time he said it, it sounded better. That his Laurens was upset was an unacceptable turn of events. In this place, so far away from anyone or anything else - sealed off from the misery of what had been his past life on the other side of the storm - there was no excuse for his Laurens to be distraught. It was his responsibility to change such a thing. If only his body would listen to him. Perhaps he no longer had a body. He would have to learn a new way to change the world without one. That would be next. After he had improved his Laurens’ mood.

“I…” His Laurens’ voice was thick, and contained a hesitancy Alexander was not familiar with. His Laurens must have been gravely ill. He would need care. “I plead that you ignore the indignity of such an action, but I must beg of you not to die, my Alexander. To imagine this war without you by my side is to imagine hell on Earth. I would be half a man were I forced to speak at your funeral.” 

“I could not do something that would upset you so dearly.” Alexander said. It seemed patently absurd to engage in any kind of action that would upset his Laurens any further than he was now, especially considering the great lengths his Laurens had gone to comfort him. After all, the man had come into this strange half-space to comfort him. He could not very well leave him here. Even further, dying seemed so _severe_. He could imagine the great offense he might do to his Laurens, and possibly many others, by engaging in such a senseless act. It did not matter that he was so tired, or that he felt so worn all over. That nothing in his body seemed to truly work was irrelevant. These things came much lower in importance than not upsetting his Laurens.

“Will you promise me that you will not die?”

“I would promise you the world, had I it to give.” 

He would touch his Laurens. He would reach from his half-death and back into his body, for that seemed so much easier than learning to move as a ghost. He needed his hands to touch the other half of his soul. He could not do without them. 

He focused on where his hand would be - and felt it, all of a sudden. It did not feel pleasant. It felt like a cold, stinging weight attached to his warm spirit. 

It didn’t matter. The cold had to be suffered to comfort his Laurens; the pain had to be beared, because without that pain, how would he know how his Laurens felt? He felt hard for his arm, which appeared at his shoulder, equally as suddenly. The arm felt worse, like a long, jagged icicle, frozen and sharp. His body seemed so unpleasant and terrible in comparison to the warm nothingness, but it could not be helped. He would need this thing to comfort his Laurens, as terrible as it seemed in so many ways.

He reached, slower than he would have expected, for the five freckles at his Laurens’ throat. They were beautiful. 

He touched the skin there. Where he touched his Laurens, the man was warm and slick from sweat in their dark half-life. Where he touched his Laurens, the man’s life flowed into him. Alexander felt more solid, and his limbs seemed closer - not so much like a musket or pen, more _him_ than a tool. His Laurens was sweaty and dirty, but they all were, and somehow this did not stop Alexander from being in awe of the feel of his skin. He tried to remember the last time he had touched his Laurens, although it seemed like there had been nothing in his life besides this dark cocoon. All around his thoughts were storms. The past was a hurricane. The future was hailstones. 

His Laurens tipped a finger under his chin and tilted his head up until they were making eye contact. Alexander’s face suddenly seemed real to him. It was not a mask. He could not discard it so easy to take the next step, not with his Laurens having touched it. He had eyes. A nose. A mouth. It seemed he had flesh again, and that flesh knitted itself all around his spirit. It was a prison. 

It was a prison he would have to bear, for he could not escape without his Laurens. Life seemed so cold and horrible, but he could not abandon it with his Laurens still there. 

“Promise me, Alexander,” his Laurens said.

“I promise to not die, my Laurens,” he said, dutifully. He could not disobey or ignore such a request from his Laurens. It was simply not possible. 

His Laurens brought both their hands to his face. Alexander felt the unshaven, warm skin of the other man's cheek. The plane of the other man’s flesh was like a step back into his body. The feel of it surged from his hand and down his arm, into his chest. He felt his heart beat. He felt his lungs expand. Dead men did not breathe. Breathing could not be so much of a struggle, if your body was not your own. 

If he would have to be shackled to this ragged, worn thing, he would use it for his benefit. He thought a command to his hand, and it listened. 

His finger moved from one freckle on his Laurens’ cheek to the next. Most of the man’s freckles were in a scattered cluster, where it was easy to trace them all. The freckles climbed up his nose and down the other side. He drew his finger down the line of Laurens’ nose and smiled.

“How do you feel, my Hamilton?” Laurens asked. Alexander could feel the warmth of his breath on his skin. 

“I feel tired,” he answered. That was certainly the strongest feeling. It felt as if it would be so easy than to step away from this beaten form - to be a spirit again, to be nothing. To close his eyes and escape hunger and suffering. 

But it could not be so, if he touched his Laurens. To touch his Laurens was to acknowledge that he was alive, and that there was reason to be so. What kept him awake and in this moment was the feel of his Laurens’ skin under his fingers, and the man's hand resting on his arm. When Laurens spoke, every word was like a tiny weight, grounding him to this reality, sealing him more firmly into his body. “I would like to sleep. My mother will be there.” 

He knew, with strange certainty, that his mother waited. She was close to him, just on the other side of consciousness. If he were to let go of his body, he could see her. She waited, in her endless patience, behind his eyelids. Part of him - most of him - ached to see her. Begged and cried out that this weight holding him down was no longer required. He could feel better. The pain would be gone. The cold would be gone. The hunger would be gone. 

His Laurens’ hand shook as the man stroked his arm. Every caress made him feel a little more solid. His mother stepped away when Laurens shifted closer, until he could feel the heat of the man’s skin bleeding off his chest. He had no space other than to rest his face in his Laurens’ neck until his skin, and those dark freckles, were all he could see. He watched his Laurens move, ever so slightly, with each breath. 

He realized he had never seen something so wonderful. 

“I would much prefer you stay with me, my Alexander. What would you like to do?” 

He could not very well turn down the opportunity to spend time with his Laurens. His mother would have to wait. She had become good at waiting, he imagined. It had been a long time since she had seen him. He thought about things to do. “Tell me about yourself,” he said, because he could not imagine something better than lying in his Laurens' arms, listening to the man talk about himself. His Laurens’ voice could banish his misery. His Laurens speaking would be a reason to be awake, to be present, to be alive. 

“About what?”

“Anything.” 

He thought that he would kiss his Laurens. How could one not kiss something of such grace and majesty? How could one not want to be so close and so intimate with something so wonderful? How could one not desire this closeness with the man who made the other half of his soul? If he was to stay, for his Laurens, he would need to know more about the man. He already knew the man’s spirit. He would need to know the flesh. 

He kissed his Laurens’ throat. He could not explain the sensation of it. He could not express, in mere words, how it felt to press his lips to his man’s skin. This sense could only be _felt_. It felt like a surge of warmth in his skin. He had skin. It felt like heat in his blood. He had blood. He had a body. 

“Hamilton…” His Laurens said, from above him.

“Your Hamilton,” he corrected. 

“Yes. My Hamilton.” His Laurens twisted to make eye contact again, and Alexander drew his eyes up to his Laurens’ face. He could manage this - looking at his Laurens. He could look at his Laurens for eternity. He would accept the cold, and the pain, and the misery, all if he was able to look at his Laurens. 

“Did you just kiss me?” His Laurens asked.

“Yes, my Laurens,” Hamilton answered, because it was the truth. “And I would do so again.” 

He would do more than kiss his Laurens. He would want to know every inch of him. 

“Oh, my Alexander.” His Laurens managed a chuckle. It was strange. Something about his Laurens’ voice was off, and he could not identify what it was. Was his Laurens upset that Alexander had kissed him? 

It was not possible. His Laurens made him whole. His Laurens could not deny the sense between them that Alexander could not explain. His Laurens must have felt it, as surely as he did. His Laurens could not deny such a thing.

“Will you kiss me, my Laurens?” 

His Laurens pressed a gentle kiss to his lips. His Laurens was warm and solid, and so completely steady, that it seemed absurd he would leave. He could feel his fingers and his toes, and the whole sense of his body. 

There was no one else for him. The storm was a cheery sunshower that he delighted in. The snowfall was beautiful and filled with soft flakes. He dared it to come closer by closing his eyes. His mother was so far from him that he did not even see her in the darkness behind his eyelids. She could not see someone as alive as Alexander was. He could not see someone who had already passed, not when he was so solid.

“Was that to your standards, my Hamilton?” Laurens asked, his voice gentle.

“Yes,” Alexander answered, and for a long second he savored the warmth that radiated from his lips and through his bones. He had bones. He had sinews and tissue and muscle. It was all there, and was bound to it, as surely as strings on a harp. 

“Now,” he said, “I want to know all about you.” 

His Laurens began to speak. He started at the beginning. He had been born in South Carolina. There had been his mother and his father. He had had two brothers. His mother had died, and he had gone to study in London, and then Geneva. There he had learned….

Alexander resettled himself back in the crook of his Laurens' neck. He stared at those freckles until he could no longer keep his eyes open, and for longer after that, he let the sound of his Laurens’ voice surround him and sink into him, so deeply that he could not have been more thoroughly chained to this life.


	9. IX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thought struck him like a musket ball to the chest, different than everything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will notice that there is now an amount of chapters left, because the story is finished except for final pre-upload edits. Woohoo!
> 
> I really, super, amazing _a lot_ appreciate your comments, kudos and views. Knowing we can all enjoy Lams and sickfic together is marvelous. Also, happy holidays to all. 
> 
> As always, I can be reached for any further fic/lams/hamilton discussion on twitter at @picklesnake.

**

When he woke again, the cobwebs had gone from his mind. 

Had that happened? Not only had he been so bold, and somehow so stupid, and so forward, as to ask Laurens to kiss him, but _Laurens had obliged._ It seemed absurd, but it also seemed too clear in his mind to be imaginary. He could remember the taste of Laurens’ skin. He could remember the warmth of his lips. He had kissed Laurens first, and then Laurens had kissed him. 

He was sure he had felt nothing in his life like it.

They could be hanged. 

Somehow, that did not take much off the magnificent edge of the memory. 

They could be _hanged._

It _must_ have happened.

Perhaps Laurens had only done so to oblige the wishes of a half-dead friend. He would have done almost anything if Laurens had requested it as his dying wish, including kiss the man. But could his kiss be so soft, so warm and loving, if it had been done only out of a sense of obligation? 

He ran this question over in his head several times. 

No. It could not be. It was not possible. 

So many things could be faked in this world - one could be older, or seem younger, or pretend to care for a creature they despised - but he could not imagine that a man could pretend to be as Laurens had been. He had been too gentle. No man could kiss another man with such tenderness, if they did not have that tenderness to spare. That feeling could not be forged. There was only one answer, and that was that Laurens had feelings that closely mirrored his own. 

He did not allow himself to consider other possibilities. This one was simply too wonderful.

He took stock of his surroundings. 

They were still curled up together, as they had been when they had kissed. The space that he had mistaken for heaven, or the storm, or some strange other half-universe - was his cot, though five or six blankets had been piled over it. That must have been the reason for the warmth and the darkness, and also why it seemed so stuffy. A greatly muted sunlight shone through. 

Laurens slept soundly around him. He imagined the man was run ragged from taking care of him, doing his duties, and likely Alexander’s as well. He did not need to wake Laurens to enjoy his company. 

What would be his strategy? He could plead ignorance; men had said things they could not be held responsible for while in an insensible state, which he had certainly been. He could deny, but such a thing made his chest ache differently on top of his regular pains. He was not a man to deny his feelings. It was difficult for him to say one thing, and mean another. But, this was an extreme case. Even if he did not pronounce this thing - which he _would not_ , and could never to the universe at large - he could not pretend it did not exist. 

He would wait for Laurens to act, and make a decision based on that. 

Perhaps Laurens would ignore that the event had happened. That option also stirred something low and uncomfortable in his stomach, but Laurens was not some stationless mongrel from nowhere to throw away what he had for the sake of what would only seem an army dalliance to the world at large. If Laurens wished to not acknowledge that he too carried a tarnished soul (as Alexander’s must have been), he could not be forced to do so. 

But the kiss had been so _wonderful_.

He could not help himself. If this were to be the end of him - if Laurens only allowed his sin because he was to shortly pass - he would take as much as he could manage. No one knew how selfish he was more than Laurens, after all. 

He planted a small kiss on Laurens’ exposed throat, then realized the godsend that was the man’s cravat. He would no longer be able to look at the patch of skin without thinking about what it felt like to kiss him there. Each kiss gave him a swooping, illicit thrill in his chest. Kissing Laurens was enjoyable, laws be damned. Laws had made him a penniless, bastard orphan. Laurens made him _whole_. 

He stole another kiss. He heard a murmur. 

“Hello, dear Laurens,” Alexander whispered into the man’s skin. “I hope I did not wake you.” 

“An insect is biting me on the neck,” Laurens muttered, but his voice was warm with affection. A hand squeezed Alexander’s shoulder. “How do you fair?”

“I feel as if a regiment has marched over me while I slept.” 

It was not an exaggeration. The pain was different than it had been the first time, but no less in it’s severity. He felt as if he had just been force-marched through two or three states, and if he flagged (and he had flagged), he was beaten. When had reached whatever forced destination was requested of him, he been thrown to the frozen ground, and then men had trod all over him in new boots, stomping his muscle aches into his bones, and grinding the pain into the invisible fibers of his soul, as if he were a meal to be seasoned. 

Where Laurens touched him, he felt less ragged. The man’s hand on his arm was like a lifeline to some mysterious past where things might have been better. And if there had been a past where he had not been so weak and pathetic, he reasoned, there must be a future. And if that future would be with Laurens, it was worth fighting towards. 

“Pain is a symptom you are alive,” Laurens murmured. 

“I am very much alive, in such a case,” Alexander replied, weakly. 

Laurens laughed softly as he shifted to look at him. The sweat gleamed on the other man’s face, and the dim lightning filtering through the blankets did him no favors, but Alexander found it could not ruin the peace he found when he caught the man’s gaze. Laurens drew a hand across his forehead to tuck a stray hair behind his ear. 

Alexander could sense the conversation before it happened.

“Do you remember what you said to me before?” Laurens asked. In the hazy darkness, Alexander could not read his expression. He did not know what the correct answer was. His heart clenched.

“Yes,” he replied, because nothing seemed clearer in his mind than the man’s affection. To remember was not incriminating. Hopefully, Laurens would not revile him for remembering. 

There was a silence.

Was that to be it? Would there be no further discussion on this manner, as if it had never occurred? Would Laurens never acknowledge that single, solitary thread between them, harder than steel, left behind the debris of his illness? Was it to be an event that all would pretend had never occurred? Would Laurens never tell him what he had thought when Alexander had, as he was wont to do, opened his mouth and said something revolutionary? 

He had to know. He could not sit in this indecision purgatory. It would be monstrous to be scorned, yes; but perhaps he had always been scorned. He would at least be granted the honor of _knowing_ he was scorned. 

He managed a deep breath, as if such a thing could give him the confidence that whiskey could, and shifted to kiss the other man. 

Laurens did not pull away or recoil, and his lips were tender and gentle. The kiss stole Alexander’s breath. It was not a horrible kind of not breathing, which he was rapidly becoming accustomed to, but instead something hot and tight in his chest, squeezing his sore heart. It must have been that he was ill. 

When they separated, Alexander found himself unable to stop smiling, despite the sharp pains all over, despite the fear of what Laurens might say, despite the gallows, seemingly looming. He remembered this feeling. This was the feeling he felt when he would receive letters from Eliza. It was the same feeling he got dancing with her. It was the same as the one he felt when they would eat dinner at the Schuyler dining table, and he could look across the table and see her beautiful face. 

It reminded him of being in love. 

He was in love with Laurens? 

The thought struck him like a musket ball to the chest, different than everything else. 

He sucked in a surprised gasp. The stifling air from under the blankets caught in his throat like dust, choking him into a series of raspy coughs that had Laurens desperately looking at him and patting his back. Pain shot through him all over.

“Breathe, damn you!” Laurens hissed, with poorly disguised panic. 

The air rattled in his lungs. He managed one breath. Then a second. He would not die. Coming to a conclusion had not killed him before, and he’d be damned if it managed to this time. 

_He was in love with Laurens._

He had long since known that he cared for the man more than anyone, and that he would have done anything for him. He certainly did not shy away from physical contact, be it a hand on his shoulder while they spoke or settling close when they drank. But somehow, the last piece of the puzzle had remained veiled to him. And now, suddenly, it had been exposed all at once, like a painting hidden behind a black curtain. It had been there all along - he had simply never looked at the situation from an angle that would reveal this result. 

He could not go back to ignorance. He was not a man to turn his back on knowledge.

“It was only a spasm, my dear,” he managed, gathering his breath as much as his thoughts. Laurens made an unhappy noise and kept stroking his back. Alexander was not about to ask him to stop. Instead, he would distract the man. He drew Laurens to him again for another kiss, this one longer. 

It was terribly dangerous to take such joy in something that you could suffer so much from if it was discovered. 

“I do not understand how something so reviled can be so marvelous, my Hamilton,” Laurens said, when they separated. Despite a tinge of uncertainty in his eyes, he wore a little smile, and it banished the fever from Alexander’s bones.

The warmth that spread through him upon looking at Laurens’ warm face cemented his hypothesis. 

“I am inclined to agree,” Alexander shifted, so they were more comfortably settled to look at one another. “But as you were explicitly ordered by the general to take care of me, one cannot reasonably and with justice hold you responsible for any actions you may take in the interest of my well-being.” 

Laurens laughed. “You are a scoundrel.” 

“A scoundrel who enjoys kissing you.” 

For his wit, he received a kiss. 

He burrowed into the embrace, and Laurens wrapped his arms more firmly around him. If Alexander closed his eyes, he could pretend the war was over, and that somehow he could bring Laurens to his home in New York, and it would be the three of them. 

They would go to France together, and they would come back, and him and Laurens would build the marvelous future of their country. 

He opened his eyes. In the dim light under the blankets, he could see a few sad stains on Laurens' jacket and the slight discolor of his undershirt from going too long without a washing. They lay in a stifling tomb of blankets to fight off the vicious chill, dreaming of a proper meal and a decent bed. All around them was death and suffering.

He swallowed his misery and tried to ignore how much everything hurt. Instead, he focused on Laurens - the man's strong arms wrapped around him; the even, calm sound of his breathing; his slight movements as he inhaled and exhaled. 

An uncharacteristic calm came over him. 

“Are you hungry or thirsty at all?” Laurens asked.

“Both, I admit,” he said, but it seemed silly to acknowledge such a thing when there was barely food to be had. 

“If I go to gather something for you to eat, will you run off?” 

“My dear, I do not think I can stand.” 

“That is not an answer to the question, and nor has that stopped you on a previous occasion.” 

Alexander managed a laugh, with some effort. “I promise to lay under these blankets until you return.” 

Laurens nodded at him. “I do not need to say how distraught I shall be if you disobey,” he said, frowning. Then, he began to shift out of their cocoon. When he moved, a blast of cold air whipped in, raising the hairs on the back of Alexander’s neck. He decided that, maybe if only some of his work could be moved under these blankets, he would never go out into the cold again.

He did, admittedly, feel bad for the men whose blankets had been repurposed to the task of warming him. 

This was a good opportunity to get some thinking done. He pondered over whether he could, and did, love Laurens. He felt moderately certain that he did, but even so, this thought was not above examination. It was a strange thing to consider. Could a man love two people at once? And one another man, nonetheless? He could not think of reason why _not_ , although reviewing the facts at hand, it did seem to be a bit odd. But it was undeniable that Laurens had made him feel the same way as Eliza. The feelings matched up too clearly for it to be anything else. Listening to Laurens laugh at his jokes gave him the same warm feeling as Eliza commenting on his letters. It was not that he did not miss Eliza, but somehow it hurt less because Laurens was there. 

To be in Laurens’ arms was his very small, very private version of heaven. When Laurens spoke, he could listen better than anyone. He understood the man, even when he did not understand himself. And no one understood him better than his Laurens, who could pluck the problems and solutions from his diatribes with ease. 

Laurens had taken the full responsibility of his care. Alexander knew that this was no small thing, given with how sick he must have been. He could not imagine what it must have been like, to lay with his fever-riddled body in the dark, suffocating silence. And the time - he had no idea how long he had laid here. 

Only something as senseless and irrational and wonderful as love could inspire a strong, healthy man with so much to do to lie with a breathing corpse. 

He heard the sound of the tent flaps ruffling and ignored the rumbling of his stomach. He had barely eaten anything since getting sick. Some whiskey. Lafayette’s stale bread. He could not imagine how bad he looked - he was already small for a soldier, and this would result in his uniform hanging off him like he was a skeleton.

“Can you sit?” Laurens asked, from outside the blankets. 

Alexander considered this task. He reluctantly moved his hands around him and tested his arms. “It would be a great effort.”

“Do not mind it.” There was the sound of furniture shifting towards him and papers ruffling. “Pull the blankets down to your waist?” 

Alexander did so. The harsh, sharp cold stung him, and a shiver raced up his spine. Even through the tentcloth, the sun was so bright that he was dazzled. The tent did not seem that much different from when they had arrived, at some mysterious point in the past. Laurens got an arm under him and lifted him into a sitting position. Than, with a grunt, the man pulled him back and let him rest against a table leg, giving him a close approximation of sitting. 

Laurens sat next to him, picked up his blankets, and draped them over his shoulders. Part of him considered complaining, but if he did in fact love Laurens - of which he had not yet decided - this behavior ought to be tolerated in silent indignity. 

_You should be honored,_ said Lafayette’s voice in his head.

Laurens held the canteen to his mouth with superb care, and he drank deeply. More importantly, he was hungrier than he could remember being - ravenous, even - and he very well knew that a few pieces of stale bread and water would hardly sate him. But this was war, and there was nothing he could do. 

Laurens tore the bread into pieces and fed them to him slowly. Chewing was a monumental effort, but now that he had promised Laurens not to die, he could not be stopped by such obstacles. 

“Do you have whiskey, dearest?” 

“Of course,” Laurens pulled a flask from his pocket and gave Alexander a good serving. It added a familiar burn to his throat and a warmth to his stomach, and even better when Laurens arranged for him another gulp, which he willingly took. He sat in the silence between them, watching Laurens with half-lidded eyes. He decided to make a point to look at Laurens more often. He was an exceptionally handsome gentleman, after all. Laurens ate his own bread in a hurry, and Alexander studied the man's cravat, knowing the man's flesh hid beneath. He knew that skin. He could not resist a smile. 

“Do you need for anything?” Laurens asked, taking another drink of whiskey. His voice had an unhidden note of concern “Or will you be fine in this manner? Would you prefer to lay down? I can see if more food can be found, but I'm afraid it has difficult to procure a feast as of late.“ 

Alexander made a huff of a laugh. “Yes, my Laurens. I would like a carved turkey, and some fruit, and a freshly baked loaf of bread with jam.” 

Laurens laughed too. “And some wine, perhaps? And a block of cheese?” 

“Such would be my regular fair as a student of King’s College.” He offered a weak little smile. Only since meeting Eliza had he occasionally managed a decent meal. Immigrant orphan students were not known for their overflowing pursues. 

Laurens snorted. “If you are as satisfied as one can be short stealing of Howe’s dinner, I find myself forced to do some work, rather than lay with you. Is that acceptable?” 

“In the interest of complete disclosure, my first preference would be for you to be with me, my dear.” Nothing matched having those arms wrapped around him. Nothing matched the feeling of the other man being so close. “Although it would be grossly unfair for me to keep another man from his work.” 

“When I am finished, I will lay with you,” Laurens told him. He nodded. That was a reasonable compromise, as Laurens’ work was not endless like his own. “Are you comfortable sitting?” 

“Yes, it is fine, for I am not able to properly see you otherwise.” The cold stung his face, but the whiskey helped, and the rest of him was covered in blankets. A little chill was more than worth being able to look at Laurens. 

Laurens moved to sit at his chair at his desk and started reviewing the monstrous stack of letters there. Occasionally, he would pick up his pen and craft a response. Unlike him, Laurens did not have to repeat every sentence back to himself until it was perfect. Alexander watched him in comfortable silence until he could no longer keep his eyes open.


	10. X

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _Mon dieu_ , I already have heard enough about your affections to last me five lifetimes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can i get a hell yeah for the return of Wise Lafayette™. (Also, fun fact: Burr came really, really close to not making it into this story).
> 
> Happy holidays all 8). Sorry for the late posting. Family, you know, etc. As usual, please comment if you enjoyed, and I can be reached on twitter at @picklesnake, where I am apparently mostly talking about the new Revolutionary War tv show [Turn](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turn:_Washington%27s_Spies). Washington/Tallmadge is where it's at.

**

He was resolved, now, to the matter that he had completely lost his sense of time. Sleeping came so naturally that not even the sharp winter sun could keep him awake. This was in great contrast to his usual self, where not even the dark, cold night could force him to sleep. He did not know how long he had watched Laurens at his desk.

He was laying down when he woke up, which would not have confused him as much had it been Laurens at his side. But he was alone in their cocoon. There was no Laurens, and no sounds that might have indicated Laurens was here. Someone was writing, but it was not Laurens. He could identify the sound of Laurens’ pen on paper.

The light filtering into his blankets, and the sound of the camp, told him it was midday. He longed to be a part of it, but it seemed like such a great effort. Not to mention that the warmth of his many blankets seemed almost too marvelous to hide from, and of course that he had told Laurens that he would stay in the tent.

He peeked his head outside the blankets. 

“Burr?” He said, a frown creasing his lips. 

“Hello, Hamilton,” Burr said, from Laurens’ chair, where he was writing on Laurens’ desk. 

“Admittedly, I would have expected Laurens and Lafayette before you. ” Alexander said, managing to sit himself up properly with what seemed like a reasonable effort. That, at least, was good. Recognizing only after how bad his words sounded, he quickly added, “Though it is good to see you, of course. It has been some time, has it not? You are not busy with command? Are you to fight?” 

“I know it is a disappointment to you to only see me,” Burr said, with a teasing little smile. “But it is good to see you, as well. It’s hard to establish how closely the gossip of the camp actually reflects reality; you seem better than the talk. That’s good. Regarding the rest of your entourage, they were both indisposed by battle preparations. The Marquis remembered that we were acquainted, and came to retrieve me to nursemaid you from leaving your tent and walking into this devil cold. As for my command - my men are already ready.” 

“You make a good leader, Burr.” 

“And you a marvelous aide-de-camp, or so I have heard.” 

Alexander snorted in disdain, but somehow it felt like too much effort to rehash the argument. “So,” he said instead, “My fever is common gossip?” 

“Only second to the battle, I think.” The man paused, considering. “Perhaps the only other illness that could get more attention would be General Washington himself, or maybe the Marquis.”

“I did not know so many were aware.” 

“Well, you did make a marvelous attempt to destroy the medical tent, and as I am sure you have now learned, there is little for sick men to do other than talk. I did not doubt it for a second when I heard the story.” Burr smiled, and shifted in his seat. “It seems truly Hamiltonian in it’s telling. The man passes out mid-march, only to be rescued by the Marquis de Lafayette. General Washington immediately orders the medical tent to be built first to attend to his man. Upon his awakening, Hamilton nearly topples the tent and disturbs all the men inside in attempt to resume working, when in fact he is not even capable of standing or speaking outside of a drunken slur.” Burr cast him an amused, familiar glance. “I daresay one could not conjure a story that speaks more to your character in their greatest attempt.” 

“I hope I am not being mocked for being aware of the work that needs to be done.” Alexander said, with a frown. 

“I would never make light of your incredibly intensive work ethic, though I cannot speak for any man but myself.” Burr sighed, and cast an eye at his half-finished letter. Due to the man’s tendency to not speak about things - the more important, the less one tended to know - Alexander could not guess what it was about. He could have been working, or he could have been sending a letter to this woman he was rumored to be courting. “Despite that I know I am wasting my time and breath, I would ask as your friend that you consider pulling back from the upcoming battle on account of your poor health.” 

Alexander frowned. While it was no surprise to him that Burr was seeking the safest and least offensive way to handle the upcoming days, the last thing he currently desired was another man to hound him about his health. “My health is improving,” he said, sharply, “I have even managed to sit on my own, as you can see. And you know as well as I do that without that experience, Washington will never give me the command I deserve.” 

“I am sure that the British will be astonished to hear that you can sit. Certainly, that is all that is required of deadly combat.” No frown drew itself across the other man’s lips, but the tone of his voice was enough that Alexander scowled. “I also imagine the general understands you would be an extraordinary commander of men, because being extraordinary is what you do. Perhaps he merely does not think that post to be as valuable as the one you currently possess.” 

“How can he see more value in this --” Alexander gestured to the papers everywhere in the tent, -- “Than leading men on the battlefield?” 

Burr shrugged. “A strong arm is nothing without a brain to command it, and a solid link between the two. None of those three elements is effective without the other.” 

“Spoken by the man who has the honor and privilege to be the arm,” Alexander muttered. “Who is permitted, nay, _encouraged_ , to make something great of himself. Who is not treated like some glorified _secretary_ , and even less than that currently. Who does not suffer due to his Excellency’s misguided feelings as if I am some wayward son, washed upon the beaches--”

Burr cleared his throat, cutting the beginning of Alexaner’s rant off. “Only you would be upset that the commander in chief of the continental army has a vested interest in you living.” 

Alexander shifted his blankets around him and gazed sullenly up at the other man. “Being shepherded and nursemaided is not the way to create glory and station for oneself. This is my only chance. To be held back shames me.” 

Burr rolled his eyes. “At least in lieu of you growing a sense of self-preservation, which seems hopelessly impossible, your entourage exists. I still think that you should go home when you are well enough to travel.” 

“I won’t.” 

“No, for I would wonder what had happened to the man who practically accosted me in New York otherwise,” he said, dryly. 

“Well, it is not my fault you bought a man who accosted you a drink,” Alexander retorted, “Plus, it is impossible for me to die now. I promised Laurens not to die, and I am not a man to break a promise.” 

Burr’s eyebrows went up, and looked at Alexander for a long moment. His gaze was piercing like a spear. No one looked at him the way Burr managed to do so, seemingly from that first fateful day. The closest he could think of was Laurens. But Laurens gazed at him like an encompassing embrace, like a caress - and Burr looked at him like the darkness of the barrel of a pistol. 

“I should promise my Theodosia not to die,” he finally said, his gaze returning to his letter. 

“You certainly should,” Alexander replied. 

Burr opened his mouth to say something else, but both of their attentions were drawn by Lafayette stepping through the tent flaps. 

“ _Bonjour, mes amis_ ,” he said, bowing to both of them. “Thank you, Burr, for looking after Hamilton for me. If you have other duties, please feel free to attend to them, although of course you are welcome to stay by the grace of the tent’s owner.” His eyes moved to Hamilton, who shrugged. “I trust he has not driven you mad yet.” 

“If he has not managed to drive me mad yet, some barely manageable fever should have no effect. He seems to be improving, though, so I have complete confidence we will soon see him talking the general’s ear off in the future.” He collected his unfinished letter and rolled it up, studying Hamilton again. There was a moment, and then he stood. “I do have other tasks to attend to, but it is my pleasure to look after him if you and the Lieutenant Colonel are indisposed. Please do not hesitate to seek me out if my services are required.” 

“Thank you, sir. You are dismissed.” Lafayette wore an easy smile despite the formality. Burr saluted.

“I’ll see you on the other side of the battle, Hamilton,” Burr said over his shoulder, and departed. 

“He has never struck me as your kind of fellow, if I can be so frank as to say so,” Lafayette said in French. Alexander studied the other man - there was a vibrating kind of energy to him that had not been there before, and his eyes were bright with excitement despite the evident tiredness there. He moved with an erratic kind of quickness, standing and pacing around the small tent, avoiding the messes of papers only with some difficulty. Curiously enough, he was also wearing his rucksack, which seemed odd if this was only a social visit. 

“He was my first friend at the time this land was as foreign to me as I’m sure it was to you, and while I may disagree with the things he does not say, I would not hesitate to protect his character,” Alexander replied, a little pointedly, in English. He waved off the beginning of Lafayette’s apology, eyes following the man’s pack as he set it down.

“It is good you have managed to sit,” Lafayette said, after a moment. He also glanced at the bag, and offered a mysterious little smile. “I will now render my official verdict: you have improved greatly, and will make a full recovery. Do not make a liar of me.” 

Alexander found his curiosity piqued. “Never, my friend. Have you brought me a gift?”

“If you are lucky, you will soon be able to senselessly charge into your own death, and I will not even have to catch you.”

The grin slipped into a scowl, though he could not decide if he was more annoyed at the Frenchman’s dismissal of his question or his health. 

“But to discuss why you should not go to battle is not why I came,” Lafayette continued, his voice now growing in excitement. He finally managed to sit in Laurens’ chair, and leaned in, as if to share a conspiracy. “I have a secret that must never reach the general’s ears. If you promise not to speak of it in untrusted company, I will share with you a great treasure.” 

“I will take this secret to my grave.” Alexander could not help his curiosity, but he could not keep a note of confusion from his voice. “I swear on my mother’s passing it shall be so.” 

“Well.” A wide, thrilled grin spread across the Frenchman’s face as pulled his shoulders back and puffed his chest. “I have procured a feast.” From his rucksack he pulled two apples, a small bottle of port, two chicken legs, and a wedge of cheese. Alexander’s eyes went wide - he had not seen such food in an eternity, or before then. Lafayette suppressed a laugh at whatever was going to come next, and leaned in even closer, so he could whisper in Alexander’s ear. “It cannot be helped that General Lee is a man who can not pay attention to his own officer’s meal. Certainly such riches can be used more appropriately to power the men who actually provide some worth to our cause.” 

A sharp laugh escaped Alexander before he wrestled his emotions back under control at Lafayette’s glare. Neither of them liked the other general, and Alexander found him to be a pompous, dull boor on the best nights and an obnoxious, vapid lout at worst. He had no issue at all reaching for one of the stolen chicken legs and biting into it. It was cold, but not frozen, and it tasted as if god himself had brought such a marvelous gift. 

“Have you told Laurens?” he said, mouth stuffed, in a similarly conspiratorial French whisper. “Certainly he should enjoy the fruits of your deceptive and cunning labor.” 

“Yes, he took an apple but insisted on you having the rest. Please eat.” 

“We cannot share?” 

“I am not hungry.” 

Alexander knew it to be a lie, because there was not a man to their cause that was not hungry, but he could not help himself. He inhaled the first chicken leg, ate half the cheese in one bite, and then started on the second without another word. Lafayette, meanwhile, had procured a small knife and was cutting one apple into small sections, which he set onto a blank piece of paper. 

There was the satisfying silence of men enjoying their meal. Alexander pondered his own thoughts as he ate the apple pieces that were appearing in front of him. 

“Lafayette.” He found his voice to have an unfamiliar insecurity as he spoke, disturbing their peace. Lafayette noticed it as well, for the man looked up at him and frowned in concern. “May I ask you something in confidence, as you have asked me? I know you to be a close friend of mine, and I seek your opinion on valuable matters.” 

“It is my great honor to provide you with all the wisdom I have acquired,” Lafayette replied. “I will speak to you as honest as I may be, and in full confidence I will not re-discuss our matters, even with your esteemed Laurens.” 

“Do you….” he ran through the words in his head as he took another bite of chicken. “Do you think a man could love another man, as a man loves a woman? Not just in the matters of the physical being, but the soul---” 

“I do think that you are in love with Laurens, yes,” Lafayette said, without skipping a beat. 

Alexander’s jaw dropped.

“I did not wish to see how well you can chew your food, Hamilton,” the Frenchman added, as if he not fired a rifle directly into Alexander's chest.

Was it so obvious? Was it so clear that it was merely a matter of time before he was executed? Had he made some clear and obvious indication, or some particular action? Was it common gossip, like his fever? How had Lafayette known? 

Should he see to ending himself with his illness as to avoid the humiliation of the gallows?

“That--” he started, because there was no reasonable action other than to deny. He was merely proposing a thought experiment. He was considering what could be an extreme situation in the human condition. This did not in any way reflect any sort of experience he had actually had. He could not risk being so transparent. “You overestimate your boundaries, my friend.” He managed, sharply.

Lafayette studied him, intense but even. “I will willingly blind myself to what I view if that is desired, but I will not apologize for seeing with open eyes.” His voice was steady, and his gaze was unafraid. “I do not speak so in jest or in shame, or to accuse you of some terrible ill or misgiving, nor would I say so if I did not have ultimate confidence in what I saw. And if I am mistaken, rebuke me in your way that you have rebuked others, but do so only if that is the feeling in your heart, and not for the sake of appearances, or for some law that, like many, is unjust.” 

Alexander could see he was waiting for a tongue-lashing.

All he had was silence. 

“I think it must be so,” he said after a long moment, in a quiet voice. It seemed absurd to hide under such circumstances. To feign ignorance would have embarrassed both of them. “I know what I feel. I have felt these feelings before. I know the light and cheer that the man brings me, and I know the fear I feel when he is ill or when he goes to battle. I could only fake ignorance to my heart, if I was to pretend. It is just odd, for not only is Laurens a man, but there is Eliza. And to think of Eliza makes my soul sing. Am I a monster, Lafayette? Have I a defect? How can I give my heart so wholly to my family - to my unborn children - if I cannot deny that I love a man?” 

“I do not see any reason why you could not love two people at once. Or that you could love this man and also love your children-to-be with the same intensity and passion that you dedicate to all other things that you do. Why would loving someone else ruin your goals for your family, if you are driven and dedicated? In the French court, and I am sure here, many marriages are arranged, and these relationships often continue successfully even if there is no love, so for there to be _too_ much love should not be a fatal failing in and of itself. Certainly, if there is anyone with enough passion in his or her heart to love his family and then another man, that very man is sitting with me.” Lafayette picked up an apple slice and popped it his mouth, then took a swig of the port. “My first suspicion, if I may say, is likely that no one wishes to bring this fact to light as to avoid property disputes, or make inheritance more complicated than it already is.” 

“Perhaps if another Lafayette had loved a man, you would not have become Marquis.” 

Lafayette grinned. “Perhaps. And then I would likely not be here, able to help you read your own thoughts, like the cipher to your nonsense.”

Alexander finished off the cheese, then reached for more apple slices. The crisp, bright flavor of it exploded on his tongue, and he savored the flavor in silence as he pondered the words. 

“Is it so obvious?” he asked. 

“To me, _oui_ , although my background is quite different from the average continental soldier.” The Frenchman smiled. “You look at him in this manner that reminds me of Adrienne. And there is, of course, that he is _your_ Laurens, as you say. But perhaps I only see because I am blessed to be friend to you both. It is in the manner that you touch. It is the manner that you sit next to each other. It is in the manner that your head ends in his lap after you have drank too much. And if it is him who has drank too much, you become his guardian, gathering him water, and making sure he does not fell himself…..” He paused, considering for a moment. “I do not know if there is one particular thing, or one moment, that I realized the depth of your care for him. But to me it is clear as day. And I am happy for you.”

Lafayette was giving him that look again. 

He knew it, all of a sudden.

 _Be careful_ , the look said. 

“You need not look at me as if I am a stray child, about to mouth off my deepest secrets to anyone besides my closest friend,” Alexander said, sharply. “I acknowledge the seriousness of the issue and do not intend to disclose this information. I am well-aware of the consequences should such a thing be known. Of course, _I_ have little to lose, but if he--”

" _Un_ , there is no definition of the word ‘stray child,’ that does not apply to you, Hamilton. _Deux_ , what is this nonsense of having nothing? Do you not have a wife? And a cause? And a Marquis that would be grandly distraught to see you hang?” Lafayette frowned. “I suppose it is unfortunate I am not an estate, for that is what you clearly value.” 

Alexander scowled. “I am sure such things do not seem so important when one acquires them _en masse_ , and they are accompanied by a place in the French court.” 

The frown on the Frenchman’s face became deeper, and he crossed his arms across his chest. When he spoke, there was a new, low note of anger. “You have asked for my confidence, which I have given, despite the seriousness of your confession - nay, _crime_ , which I will not share. You have asked for my counsel, which I have given. You have asked for my advice, which I have given. And now it appears you are striking me with jabs regarding my inheritance? Out of anyone, I would not expect _you_ to think I would pick land over my mother and father. You are my close friend. I would trust you with my greatest struggles. But I will not tolerate to be so disrespected with this accusation it is my fault or flaw I was born into my family, and that for them all to pass is some great achievement on my behalf. I mean only to say that, yes, Laurens has a family, and he has land, and those things may mean something, if that is what you care to value. But to make this suggestion you would pass unmourned and would be forgotten is ludicrous. The very general of your army would seek to protect you, if he were able. I know that you value nothing more than your legacy, Hamilton, but you do not speak for anyone else.” 

The energy dropped out of Alexander’s shoulders. “I did not intend to put forth such an accusation. I was unnecessarily harsh with you, my friend. Your confidence, counsel and advice are all grandly appreciated, and I am honored to know you would mourn my passing, even if were as a punishment for such a crime. It is the fever talking.” 

“As I was saying, then,” Lafayette resumed, resettling himself into the chair. “I will not be told I have misplaced my concern about this. You know of the punishments for exposing such a thing. It is marvelous that your heart is so close. But perhaps you should have a few less whiskeys on our upcoming events, so that you know how likely it is you may accidentally be pronouncing your new affections in addition to your usual rambles about the government. _Mon dieu_ , I already have heard enough about your affections to last me five lifetimes.” 

“I can control myself when I am drunk.” 

The Frenchman snorted. “Perhaps you should consult your comrades before asserting so.” 

Alexander resettled his blankets around him and redirected his full disdain onto the meal. 

Lafayette cleared his throat and took a swig of port. “Personally, of course, I do not think it is so unreasonable to love another man, if a bit unorthodox. Certainly, there are stranger things that are done, _non_? In such a light, it would almost be natural for an unusual character as yourself to have this trait. Children of war show that love is not required for a family or for heirs. Perhaps God gave us love to show us how much joy we could bring to another, just as he gave us war to show how much pain we can cast upon our enemies.” 

Alexander decided at that moment that, despite his youth, perhaps Lafayette _was_ as wisened as he pretended to be. Of course, this was not something he was ever going to share with the Frenchman. “Thank you, _mon ami_. And do you think that he…?” 

Lafayette dumped the remaining apple slices in Alexander’s lap, along with the small bottle of liquor. Then, he collected the remaining bones and apple cores and wrapped them in a piece of paper, and dumped them back into his rucksack. “If I did not already think so, the anguish on his face upon seeing your body on my horse would have confirmed it.” A beat. “Now, eat. You will need strength for the battle, because not even God himself will be able to keep you from it.” 

Alexander frowned, “It will be soon?” He stuffed another apple piece into his mouth. 

“We are days away.” Lafayette’s brow furrowed, and he looked away. “Only the last few things must be managed, and then we will march at dusk. A battle in this bitter cold, and there will be snow--” 

He was disturbed by a loud throat clearing outside the tent. “Major General!” A voice said.

Lafayette looked at the tent flaps and shook his head. “I must away, Hamilton. There is too much to be done. As your major general, I am ordering you to stay inside this tent. And if you do not, the general will be mad at your Laurens, and so will I.” 

“A cruel blow." 

“If cruel measures must be undertaken for you to rest, then they shall be.” Lafayette stood and brushed himself off. “I will see you when I am next available. Until then, be well, my friend.” He bowed, then left. 

Alexander worked through the remaining apple slices, then set the port in his pack for some future celebration. Then, with a grunt, he moved himself and his blankets to his desk, with a reasonable amount of effort. He could pick up a pen. He could dip it in the inkwell. When he looked at the paper, it did not slide out of focus, or at least not enough that he was forced to look away.

He would be ready for battle. He had to be. 

He began to write.


	11. XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You are more serious to me," Alexander replied without thinking. There was a strange pause in his head; he had not meant to say the words, or realized they had been uttered until after he had heard them, and then realized they had been said in his voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVE SOME VERY IMPORTANT NEWS TO SHARE WITH ALL OF YOU. OCULAR NOW HAS FANART!!! IT IS AMAZING!!! IT IS THE BEST THING I HAVE EVER SEEN!!! IT IS EXTRAORDINARY!! [LOOK AT IT!!!](http://olisepha.tumblr.com/post/140977467723/reuploading-my-lams-fanart-for-the-wonderful) ISN'T IT MARVELOUS??? (if you forgot, it harkens back to ye olde [chapter v.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5213429/chapters/12248291)).
> 
> As always, your continued comments, kudos, appreciation, and love (and fanart omfg) are extremely welcome and also i adore each and everyone are you. you are my sunflowers!!
> 
> also: the amount of chapters went up because i broke what was this chapter into two chapters for dramatic tension. sorry. i am the worst human. anyway. in lieu of that, please enjoy.

**

The following day, it was simply too cold to write at his desk, so he had been forced to re-evaluate his strategy. He had found a comfortable position on the floor, rearranging their belongings and finding a large enough book to put in his lap so that he did not have to get out of his blanket pile to write. It was not easy - the words blurred if he looked at them too much, and he found that he had more or less lost the ability to write straight - but it was all he had.

As he furiously considered the conclusion to his anti-slavery essay, the tent rustled and Laurens stepped in. The man was pale with cold, a scowl hovering on his lips and his forehead creased in anger. Alexander put his pen down, studied him for a moment, and smiled. 

"You seem in poor spirits, my dear," he said. "Perhaps you would be better if you were to lie with me? Or do you only seek temporary respite between moments of work?" 

"It is difficult to stay in high spirits when one must listen in silence to Lee's nonsensical prattle. That the man thinks he could identify and resolve a solution better than General Washington is as absurd to imagine as if I were to captain a ship through a sea storm.” Laurens paused, his anger leaving him with a sigh. “And I am dismissed, at least for this instant, though I do not have confidence that the general will not look for me at the spur of the moment." A beat. "But that does not ease my desire to lay with you." 

Alexander moved his makeshift desk to the side, and Laurens laid next to him. They rearranged the blanket pile to cover both of them as much as possible. 

"I did not invite an ice cube to my bed," Alexander muttered, when Laurens wrapped an arm around him and pulled him close.

"I am certain I can find General Lee to lay with you, then; he has spent most of his time here in front of a fire and discussing nothing of any importance." 

Alexander could suppress the expression of revulsion that sprung to his face at the thought of the boorish man lying next to him. "I did not deserve such cruelty,” he said, sternly, over the sounds of Laurens’ laughter, "It is not benefitting of your character to tease the sick with such horror." 

The laughter resided, but the smile remained, and Alexander could not help but stare at the brightness that stayed in the other man's eyes. All of a sudden, his cares were eased, and he was no longer concerned about Lee or the battle. In the face of such overwhelming beauty, he found it difficult to hold any great concerns about anything. How could he be anything but in love with a man of such amazing character and integrity - not too mention exquisitely handsome? It seemed absurd to imagine any other way his feelings could arrange themselves. 

"Yes, you suffer so," Laurens replied, closing his eyes and stroking Alexander's hair. "As further punishment, I will discuss with you the goings-on of the camp. With a grip such as the one I have --" He squeezed Alexander in a way that made the man's heart sing -- "You will never escape this torture." 

"I already feel the fear and terror of the upcoming events," Alexander mumbled, unwrapping Laurens' cravat, so he could put his face in the man's throat. "Do not seek to drive me mad by waiting, I beg." 

It seemed that Laurens had scarcely sat all day; as Alexander had suspected, the man became almost unreasonably busy, burdened with the work of both of them. He had crafted some letter to Congress asking for more winter supplies, such as blankets and tarps. He had run back and forth between Lafayette and Washington at least ten times as they counted stores and tried to create some kind of order in the quartermaster's office and a variety of other tasks Alexander usually would have done himself. After the summary of his overworked schedule, he launched into an explanation of the meeting he had sat in on regarding the upcoming battle. That it was snowing and freezing was unfortunate, but Washington was adamant that they could not wait. If their guns did not fire, they were equipped with bayonets, and there had been a further scour of the camp for sabres and other small hand weapons. Lee had added some objection which, Laurens explained, Hamilton would have gotten himself court-martialed disagreeing with. 

"I could not imagine the lengths General Washington would have had to go to to soothe his temper, had you been there to point out all the clear and notable flaws in his alternative plan. And do not propose to me you would have stewed in silence, because certainly there is no way for you to keep to your personal opinions to yourself." Laurens was saying.

"I would duel the man if need be," Alexander said.

"I have no doubt that you would, given that nothing is more serious to you than an infraction upon your legacy." 

"You are more serious to me," Alexander replied without thinking. There was a strange pause in his head; he had not meant to say the words, or realized they had been uttered until after he had heard them, and then realized they had been said in his voice.

Laurens kissed him atop his head with a little chuckle. "Afterwards, Lafayette and I - you know, of course, that Lafayette dislikes Lee almost as much as you - had a drink. He bemoaned your absence, as he likes listening to you insult Lee rather too much, in this man's esteemed opinion.”

"John," Alexander said, for a queer feeling had settled over him all of a sudden. He could not stop thinking of what he had just said. He had said so without consideration, with no attempt to flatter. It had simply been the truth. "May I speak to you in confidence, as my dearest heart?" 

Laurens tilted his head to cast him a slightly concerned look; the man had caught the uncertainty in Alexander's voice as surely as if he had cast a net. "Of course you may, Hamilton. You may always do so, without asking. Certainly, you know that there is no one that I trust more, or that I would reach for first to save in the heat of battle." 

Alexander waited a moment before speaking. He was not sure, precisely, what he wanted to say, which was an uncomfortable and unfamiliar feeling. He tried to cast his mind back, to start without thinking. "While I have been sick, and when I suspect I am the most ill - after I passed out on the march, certainly, and recently - I have these dreams. I am still not certain if they are actually dreams, in all honesty, because they have a peculiar type of intensity and sense to them that is not familiar to me.” He shook his head. That had been wrong. He had to readjust. “Nevertheless, in these events, I seem to experience both a hurricane that devastated my town as a child, and also these abominable snow and hailstorms that have seem to become the army's best friend.” He was not familiar with the sense of struggling for words, and somehow nothing seemed an adequate explanation. But it could not be helped. He had to continue. “Sometimes I am standing in the storm, drowning. Sometimes I am not a true person, but I am feeling the storm, as if I am a tree or a beast. Sometimes it seems as if the storm has weapons, like it can strip the flesh from my bones, or it aims with specific intent to strike me with lightening. Sometimes the hailstones would beat on me to draw blood, and the blood would freeze, and…” 

He paused and noticed Laurens was staring at him, still. He could not read the man’s expression. 

The conversation momentarily escaped him. He reached for the thread of it. 

“I admit to not knowing if you possess any understanding of hurricanes, so I apologize if I speak as if you are ignorant,” he said, trying to get back on track, “But the nature of a true hurricane includes a brief pause in the center. There are ferocious storms, and in the center, there is the eye of the storm - a sort of lull in the chaos. When the lull ends, the storm resumes. To me, it had always felt like coming up for air when swimming.” 

He pressed a kiss to Lauren’s slightly-open mouth. He could see the end of the subject now, suddenly clear. A fog had lifted. 

“Your care was the eye of my storm. When you were with me, the storm ceased. I did not feel so….. I did not feel like I would be swept away, frozen or drowned. When you were with me, I felt like I would survive.” 

“I am glad that I could help you,” Laurens managed in a whisper. He shifted to stroke Alexander’s hair, and pulled him close. “To watch you struggle, to watch you be so sick - it was almost more than I could bear. To see you in such agony, and to feel so helpless other than to squeeze water into your mouth and move your blankets was a torment I cannot express. I could not stop from myself asking horrible questions. What would this war be like without you? What would be the point? What was the value of a new free nation if not for you to be there to enjoy it by my side?” 

Alexander met his eyes, and they held each other tight for a long moment. 

“My dear John,” he mumbled, inhaling the smell of the man’s skin. “You have done so much for me. Without you, I would not be here. I must tell you, now that you know this about me - about what you have done for me - that I love you.” 

Laurens went still around him. Alexander felt fear rise like bile in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying to any god that would listen. To imagine Laurens saying no, or…

Laurens’ hand pulled the tie from his hair, and ran his fingers through the strands. Alexander chewed the inside of his lip and fought the urge to scream. 

“What does it feel like?” Laurens asked. His voice was… _inquisitive_. Curious. He wanted to know more. He was not recoiling in disgust. He did not hurry to report a crime in action. He was not pulling away in horror. He was right here, drawing his hands through Alexander’s hair and holding him close. 

“To love you?” Alexander asked, feeling stupid. 

“Yes.” 

He took a breath. He could do this. He could not back off now. He would not get his chance again. There would be the battle, and work to do, and the general.

“When I see you, my heart lifts. It is as if a private sun has peeked out from behind a cloud to bathe me in warmth. It is as if my cursed fever flees you.” He slid one hand to caress Laurens’ face, revelling in the feel of his skin. “There is no one who understands me as you do. If I present you a problem that vexes me, you always point me towards a solution. If I have some issue to work through, you alone know the important points to consider. To see you during the day, while we work - it is a small blessing in our dark world. When you laugh, I feel as if nothing could be wrong. When you are upset or injured, nothing could be worse. To have you away from me feels as if I am missing a limb; when we are far, I count the days until I can look upon you again.” 

Alexander took a breath and prepared to continue, but Laurens’ gaze stopped him. 

“I think I must be in love with you too then, Alexander,” Laurens said, leaning in to kiss his forehead. “For I know all these things. They are feelings I feel for you. When you smile, my world brightens. Even to watch you work, muttering and shaking your head, is a gift. The passion you exude into all walks of life is like a glow I cannot help but go towards, like a moth to your flame.” For a few moments, Alexander forgot to breathe. Laurens stroked his hair thoughtfully. “Is it… the way I cannot help but smile as you come to some brilliant conclusion? Is it that, while you are ill, I can scarcely consider any other work? Is it the joy I feel when your health improves? Is it the warmth that spreads through me when we touch?” 

“I……” He was having trouble speaking. “Yes. It is those things.” 

“Well, then I must love you, Alexander.” Laurens made a thoughtful face, as if testing the words. “Now that I have said it, I can be assured it is the case. I love you.” Laurens looked at him, and Alexander felt his smile stretch from ear to ear. “There is no one who completes me like you.” 

“My love. John.” The moment seemed too large. He was going to drown in it. It was a different kind of drowning. He could not express the joy there was to be found in this kind of drowning. 

“I have never seemed you so consumed in your own feelings, Hamilton,” Laurens teased, “Many have tried, but it seems I alone have accomplished the task of conquering you.”

“Were all kings to be as wonderful as you, we would not have to fight this accursed war,” Alexander replied, with a playful grin on his face. “What royal decrees will you force me to submit to?” 

Something in Laurens’ eyes flashed hot. His grin turned wicked. 

Alexander promptly forgot whatever witty remark he had stored. It had not occurred to him until that moment that being in love in Laurens might include more than making his soul sing. Certainly the man could generate passion within his heart, and heat his blood, but he recognized the bolt in his stomach as something very different. 

“Well...” Laurens began, pulling him close so he could whisper in his ear. 

Alexander was not sure Laurens knew the torture he created. He was not sure what to say to keep him from stopping. 

For he knew this heat, he knew the sense of it, the trickling of breath so close across his skin, the subtle promise of the future that it brought. He could not stop his thoughts from wandering. If they were in love, what could he do to Laurens? Could he work Laurens as he could work Eliza? Certainly there were technical differences, of course, but he had a man’s equipment and understood the details, and certainly Laurens could not be _so_ different from him in terms of desires… 

He reached, hesitantly, and drew his finger across the line of Laurens’ chapped lips. 

There was a flicker of a pink tongue, and sudden wetness at the top of the digit.

“I would not like you to revolt,” Laurens said, looking at him. “I would prefer for you to be an obedient servant.” 

Alexander whimpered before he could stop himself. 

“It is not in my nature to be obedient,” he answered, gathering himself back together. Laurens could not be interested in him yielding so easily. No one who knew him could be interested - or expect - such an outcome. But he did not deny that immediately submitting to Laurens had an appeal that no other surrender had ever come close to. “I possess too many revolutionary ideals. I have been called a malcontent.” 

“In such a case---,” Laurens began, but then a monumental catastrophe occurred.


	12. XII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “General---,” Hamilton began, unable to stop the edge of desperation from creeping into his voice, because Laurens had a family, and station, but if he were to take the punishment --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you will not believe this BUT THERE IS ANOTHER PIECE OF OCULAR FANART. [LOOK!!](http://faunlord.tumblr.com/post/137001322261/will-you-promise-me-that-you-will-not-die-i). It's really marvelous and I love it. I love all of you. Thanks for reading, kudosing, commenting, making fanart, etc. Because I love all of you, I posted this chapter early. As always, further lams/hamilton chatter with me is best done on twitter at @picklesnake.

**

There was a sudden commotion outside the tent, and what sounded like many men snapping to salute.

Then, there was a desperate French lilt from much too close, “Perhaps I should--” 

“Not required,” said a familiar, stern voice, and the tent flaps ruffled.

Alexander and Laurens turned at the same time and made a grand and collective stagger to their feet. Laurens stepped on their now semi-empty pile of blankets, stumbled, and saved himself only with a wild grab at Alexander’s chair. He snapped into a salute of his own, but that did not solve the disheveledness one usually acquired from laying down: hair awry, cravat still undone, and jacket wrinkled. 

Alexander began to lurch upright, but the moment he put any pressure on the balls of his feet, a pins and needles feeling of incredible ferocity struck him so intensely that he thought at least one of his feet may have fallen off. He fell ungracefully back into the blanket pile, suppressing the groan as his leg hit the hard bed. His arm, at least, obeyed him as it came up to form a salute, although he could feel the muscles quickly begin to burn. 

Fear swelled in his chest. How could he have been so careless? How could he had let his loins guide his actions in such a clumsy way? He knew what the penalties were for such an act, and then he had just told Lafayette that he would not be stupid, and then to be caught by Washington, the man who had given him everything, and for him to throw it away over what everyone would think was nothing-- 

It was then he noticed that the smallest blessing had come upon them: Laurens was not as clearly as stimulated by their close quarters as he had been, or at least he was not showing to be. Had Alexander managed to stand up, he was not sure he would have been able to handle the humiliation, even if he escaped any other punishments. 

Just inside the tent flaps, Lafayette’s face was drawn into an expression of sheer, ultimate horror.

Washington could not stand upright in their small quarters, but his presence dominated the area nonetheless. His eyes swept the scene in silence. His expression was unreadable. 

“Lay down,” he said, without looking at Alexander, whose arm had begin to visibly tremor. “Do not dishonor the men whose blankets you use by not taking full advantage of them.” 

“Yes, Your Excellency.” Despite the shame he felt, Alexander laid himself back into the blankets. On a good day, he came only to Washington’s shoulder. From the floor, the man looked like a giant, as if he would stand above stormclouds.

“At ease, Lieutenant Colonel,” Washington continued, studying Laurens’ state of disarray with faint disapproval. “Admittedly, when I assigned you to take care of Hamilton, knowing you would extend every effort, this was not what I imagined.” 

“General---,” Hamilton began, unable to stop the edge of desperation from creeping into his voice, because Laurens had a family, and station, but if he were to take the punishment -- 

Washington held up a hand in his direction. 

“But, in retrospect, there is no more reliable heater than a human body in close quarters, so it appears you have gone above and beyond your command, as you usually do.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Laurens in a small voice. 

Washington looked down at Alexander, who had never felt _quite_ so insignificant as this very moment.

“How do you fair, Hamilton?” He asked. “I feel as if we nearly lost you again. Making not one, but two, miraculous recoveries seems to speak more to your spirit than anything else.” 

“I fare well, sir,” Alexander answered, though it was hard to maintain confidence given the circumstances. “I feel as strong as I have ever felt.” This did not include the radiating pains in his legs, but such things needed to be ignored for the greater good. “What assistance can we offer the cause?” 

“You can offer the assistance of laying beneath those blankets until I provide you a new order.” Washington frowned at him. “It was a mistake to allow you to meander about in the cold. You are on bedrest until otherwise noted.” 

“Yes, sir,” Alexander replied, because one did not argue with men that towered above them. 

Washington turned his attention away from Alexander, and Alexander shifted to shoot a betrayed look at Lafayette. How could the man permit the general to interrupt them? 

Lafayette offered a silent shrug and shot him an accusing look right back. He gestured back at the general, as if to say, _you expect me to stop this?_

“Lieutenant Colonel, I require your aid immediately. Make yourself presentable and come to my tent as soon as you are able. You know that we are pressed for time, and I do not need to express uponst you the importance of haste.” 

“Yes, sir,” Laurens said, and Washington turned and left the tent. 

“ _Mon dieu_ ,” Lafayette said, his voice strangled, staring at Alexander. “Did we not _just_ discuss this very event, Hamilton? I had previously thought that men of your brilliance would not be such lovestruck fools as to be so senseless at a time you could be called for duty, but clearly I thought much too highly of my two closest comrades. I doubt I will see such monstrous idiocy again if I am blessed to live until I am a hundred.” 

Laurens gave Lafayette an alarmed look as he quickly replaced his cravat and straightened his jacket. Lafayette held the man’s hair tie as he drew his hair back from his face again. 

“Oh, of course _I_ am the one that frightens you when the general himself has nearly caught you necking like schoolchildren,” The Frenchman hissed. “To imagine if you had gone much further, than none of us would have had such deniability and you would all be hanged.”

“If we could instead not consider that thought,” Alexander said in a strained voice, trying to suppress the rising contents of his stomach that accompanied the mental image of Laurens hanging from the gallows.

Lafayette looked at him as if to offer him a further rebuke, but his face softened. “It is good that you care so for each other,” he said, in hurried French, “But you are two brilliant men and you should know the penalties of making it so clear.” 

“Enough,” said Laurens, harshly, taking the tie back and twisting it into his hair. “We had not intended to end up in such an event and we are both gentlemen who understand the seriousness of what we have established. But now is not the time for this discussion.” He took a breath, as if to steady himself, and then he turned to Alexander, stabbing a threatening finger in his direction. “If the general says to stay in your blankets, you cannot consider disobeying him, and I will personally be very disappointed if I am to see you around the camp, or at your desk,” he said, and then he and Lafayette disappeared into the cold, muttering in French to one another. 

Alexander burrowed into the blankets and worked on remembering how to breathe. The scene had arrived with the force of a cavalry charge and left him winded.

On the upside, the flame low in his stomach had been completely extinguished, resolving any discomfort in his breeches.


	13. XIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “At this very moment, the vastness of my desire for you could fill oceans. Do not allow me to be swept to sea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the porn chapter, so if you are not interested in the sexual congress of military officers, you can skip this one. if you are interested in the sexual congress of military officers, i recommend reading.
> 
> as always, eternal and forever thanks for your kudos, comments, time, and hits, and i can be contacted to discuss lams/hamilton/porn/sexual congress of military offers over on twitter at @picklesnake.

**

He awoke in the deep, freezing darkness and still chasing the dream he had been having. He had been having a dream about Laurens. They had been in a monstrously comfortable bed, as if they were royalty, and there had been a brilliant fire in the grate, and Laurens had been telling him that he _did_ want Alexander to submit. He had been pressing his body against Alexander’s, and they had both been nude, and Alexander could not breathe from the heat of it, and he could not resist or stop himself from kissing and touching Laurens --

Laurens was here, in the dark. 

But they could not take such risks again. 

But Laurens had crawled into his bed, curled up around him, and gone to sleep. 

But they could be _hanged_. 

But his blood was thrumming like a war drum. 

Laurens was right next to him, delicate and asleep. Laurens was fully dressed (he could feel the buttons and the cuffs against his skin), because of course only an idiot undressed in this cold for longer than it took to jump in a river to wash off the grime. Alexander could not help but think of his dream - Laurens’ pink, wet mouth; Laurens’ strong, capable hands; Laurens’ muscular chest; Laurens’ thick manhood. He was weak. He was sinful and immoral, a bastard of no standing, and a man with nothing to leave behind. 

The camp was quiet and the night would mask their sins. 

He nodded to no one. 

He did not suspect they would be interrupted, given the silence around them and the absolute darkness of their tent. He did not need light to see Laurens, to know where the other man was. He could feel his skin all around.

He could not stop himself. His desire was a wave, sweeping up any doubts, disagreements, or hesitations like storm debris. It surged upon him so suddenly and so completely that he could consider no other course of action. He was not a man to hesitate or disguise his ideals. The more dramatic or revolutionary the action was to be, the more passionately he needed to pursue it. He could not act as if he could be resisted. He had to consume the moment and step forward into the future that he shaped. 

He pressed a kiss to chapped lips. Another. A third, more insistent. 

“Mm,” rumbled Laurens. 

“My Laurens,” he whispered, and he drew a hand up the man’s arm. He knew the knots well enough to unwrap his cravat without seeing it.

He nipped at the skin there. His favorite. 

“Alexander,” Laurens breathed. He could feel the man’s eyes on him. “What are you doing?” 

“John.” Alexander suddenly found himself breathless. His skin burned - not with the fever, but with a new kind of heat. He was trying not to become swept up in it, but it was a difficult task. Words, his main weapon, seemed worthless here. He could only make headway with actions. Even so: “I had a marvelous dream. We were in a real bed, and there was a fireplace, and we were nude, and you were hovering above me, telling me to submit. I couldn’t stop looking at you, at your body, and as much as I wanted to consume you, I knew I couldn’t. You were my king, and I your vassal.” 

“Hamilton, this --” 

“I will speak frankly,” he said, his voice a sharp, harsh whisper. “Do you desire me, my love?” 

He had to know. He could not convince his Laurens to take this course of action with anything other than the overwhelming strength of his conviction. He would use only the clear, obvious truth. He would ask only the most direct of questions. He already knew that such a thing was more dangerous than a battle and could create a deeper, more lasting scar than a gunshot. But he could not let the fear of being harmed stop him. He had to be willing to die for this cause, as much as any other thing he believed. If he did not acknowledge the terrible possibility that lingered so close, there was no chance for it to take shape in reality. He ignored the sharp twist of doubt, because that was the only way to press forward.

He could do nothing but press forward.

He had been born to march.

“Do not mince words,” he said, trying to stop the dangerous, hot spark of lust in his bones from catching fire. “If you do not wish this, I will retreat. But I will not lie to you in that there is little I desire more than to ravish you at this very moment. I know the law. I know what this is. I accept I will know forever in my heart that I am a godless sodomite. But that is meaningless. It is nothing in comparison to the joy it would bring me, and to the pleasure I wish to bring you. If we were not trapped in this despicable cold, I would tear your clothes from you in attempt to have you speechless with ecstasy. As it is, I am certain I am capable enough.” 

There was a suffocating silence. Alexander did not think of the terrible endings. He did not think of the gallows. He did not think of -- 

“You have infected me with this carnal urge, and I cannot deny that I _want_ ,” Laurens said, at last, smashing his fear like glass. Alexander opened his mouth to say something, but then Laurens continued. “When you kiss me, my heart burns. Your touch in this manner makes my skin sing. I cannot deny that I want for you, and more now than I have ever before. To think of us in this dream--” For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing. “Will God smite us?” 

“Certainly we deserve at least _this_ , when we have nothing else,” Alexander replied, his whisper harsh, reaching and finding Laurens’ face. Laurens scooted closer, until he could feel the man’s panting breath against his lips and their legs had tangled. “We have risked our lives to fight for liberty and freedom and the greater improvement of man; we have given all our material belongings and been left with barely anything, no food, no warmth. Our friends have died by bullet, bayonet and fever. How can God deprive us this pleasure in the midst of so much misery?” 

“There is no one better to be around, when you wish to be convinced of something.” Laurens pressed a kiss to his lips, and Alexander felt the man’s hand on his side, caressing him in a fluttering, frantic manner. “Yes, my Alexander, I want you. I want this.” 

He wasted no time. He kissed Laurens again, this time deeper, pressing his tongue into the other man’s mouth. He had not felt so fantastically warm in weeks, and wondered if he would ever feel cold again. His hands reached for flesh, wishing desperately to tear clothes off. His fists clenched in the wool of the Laurens’ jacket as Laurens’ hands hands dug into his shoulders. 

Finally he would have his way.

He broke the kiss, swallowing a ragged little moan that made him dizzy. 

“I would make you moan so loudly, if there was privacy to be had,” he mumbled against Laurens’ lips, tracing the man’s hairline and drawing his fingers through his hair. “But we must be quiet, for--” 

“Yes, yes, I know. And it is not acceptable for _you_ to be telling anyone to be quiet, Hamilton.” Laurens nipped at his jawline, and the shock of it made his stomach twist. 

“How could you wound me at a time when we are so intimate,” Alexander retorted, gathering himself and kissing down Laurens’ neck. He could imagine those freckles at his throat. He could imagine that skin, glistening with sweat, heaving with each breath. He even considered finding a candle, but -- it was too much effort. He could not move so far from his Laurens. He was trapped in the man’s orbit as surely as a moon. 

He bit there, first gently, listening to Laurens’ suppressed whimpers. Then harder, and there were stifled moans, and he felt Laurens shift around him. He reached, curious to know. He could feel the line of the man’s arm reaching towards the other man’s face. His hand. 

Laurens was biting down on his hand to stop himself from moaning too loudly. 

Alexander’s toes curled in his socks. He wrapped his legs around the other man until they were desperately flush. He could feel the man’s hardness against him. 

“You are a blasted scoundrel, Alexander Hamilton,” Laurens muttered to him. Alexander bit his throat again, this time harder still, and Laurens gasped. 

“A blasted scoundrel who would ravish you all over at the slightest provocation,” Alexander replied, and he planted his lips there and sucked. He would leave a mark. They would both know about it, hidden under a cravat. It would be their secret binding. If he were to die, let this mark remember him. 

“Just--- lord, Alexander, how do you manage to be so thorough in all aspects of your life?” 

“There is no reason to set one’s eyes upon a task if one cannot do it to the best of their abilities.” 

He could feel Laurens’ eyes on him. He could sense the smile. He smiled back, breathless. Laurens would know he was smiling. 

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too,” Laurens replied.

He found Laurens’ hand and drew it away from the man’s face. He could feel where the flesh was wet - where he had bit to suppress the moans. Moans that Alexander had drawn from him. The thought sent a renewed shiver up his spine, and he guided Laurens’ hand down his body and pressed it to the hard bulge in his breeches. 

Laurens squeezed, gently, and Alexander sucked in a ragged gasp. 

“You have no lack of skill yourself.”

“Your body speaks to me,” Laurens murmured, and he squeezed again, a little harder, and Alexander could not help but buck into it, biting down on his lip to hold back the groan. Laurens started a little pattern, stroking him through his clothes, and the intensity of it was overwhelming. It was funny to think that even this could leave him in such a state. He was no stranger to intimacy with women, but that never felt like this. “Laurens--” 

“Quiet.” Laurens squeezed him harder, almost on the verge of pain. He saw stars. He kissed desperately at Laurens’ neck to stop himself getting them discovered. 

“I just - my breeches -” 

Laurens drew his hand away. 

“It will be a noticeable stain,” Laurens said, and Alexander nodded, desperately trying to breathe. 

“Let me just--” he said, because that was all he could manage. He fought with his suspenders, trying to avoid taking his coat off. The buttons he could manage easily in the dark. The ties were more troublesome, but he could hardly allow obstacles in his way. He was not the type of man to allow obstruction to his goals. Especially not when he had already come this far. Especially not when his goal was so willing and handsome and brilliant. 

He hissed with pleasure as Laurens reached for him again, the man’s fingers making contact with his bare flesh. It was too much. He was going to pass out. It was simply too pleasurable to have Laurens touching him like this, so close. The desperate intimacy tore at him, and he buried his face in the junction of Laurens’ neck and shoulder, as to better suppress his moans.

Laurens wrapped his hand around him slowly, as if learning about him. Feeling him out. He had not thought or considered such an inventive torture. 

“My dear Laurens, dear John, you tease.” 

“It is not so bad, to have to wait, is it?” 

“Yes, dearest, it truly is.” 

Laurens chuckled. The sound surged in Alexander’s blood and made his head spin. 

“At this very moment, the vastness of my desire for you could fill oceans. Do not allow me to be swept to sea.” 

Something shifted in the following silence, and Laurens drew his hand away. Instead, those arms wrapped around Alexander and held him tightly, squeezing him close. 

Possessive, he thought. Protective, like a shield. The man’s voice was fierce at his ear. “Alexander, I promise not to let you go. I will not let you be swept to sea. I will not let you be consumed by a storm, be it wind, hail or snow. I will let no man take you from me.”

A queer feeling rose in Alexander’s throat. It was not lust. He knew what lust felt like, especially as him and Laurens stoked its fires. But it made his heart surge nonetheless, and stared into the darkness where he knew the other man’s face to be. He reached, and drew his fingers down the man’s stubbled cheek. He traced the line of his lips. 

“I have promised not to die. How further can I convince you?” 

“Just stay alive. That would be enough.” 

“I am not a man to break a promise.”

“I know.” Laurens kissed his forehead, and titled his head up to press a kiss to his lips. 

“John--” 

“Dear god, Alexander, as if I do not hear you talk enough outside of this moment,” Laurens said, and his hand wrapped around Alexander’s hardness, causing him to immediately forget whatever he had thought to say. That there could be such pleasure to be found in the embrace of another man (not just any other man, but his Laurens!) was extraordinary. He had always known Laurens to be so familiar with him that the man could guess his thoughts and actions before they came to him, but this was a new and thrilling way to put such knowledge to use. Laurens could play him like a harp, and Alexander could barely resist breaking into a heavenly chorus. He had never guessed the man would have such skill in an act like this. 

The heat twisted inside of him and curled in his stomach like a spring. He could feel it increase, feel the tightness in his muscles and the clenching of his fingers as he groped desperately for the other man in the darkness. He could see that face without light - brow furrowed in concentration, freckles drawing tight across the bridge of his nose, lips pressed together, small gasps spilling from him. 

Alexander felt his grip slacken on his control. He reached desperately to regain it. 

“John, I---” 

“Yes?” 

“Please don’t stop.” 

“Never.” 

Alexander found a rhythm to push back into Laurens' hand, hips shifting restlessly between them. He had never felt like his before, so tightly wound, everything so exquisite and shocky. His whole body felt like the edge of a blade, freshly sharpened. It cut against their suffocating blanket pile and Laurens' rough hand. He grabbed Laurens' coat desperately, digging his fingers into the wool and pulling them close. Buttons and coarse fabric dragged against him.

He had never been agonized in such a way that made him crave for it to be eternal. 

The darkness swallowed them like a beast. 

He let Laurens' coat swallow a low, desperate moan. “John,” he mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut. “John, please -- you -- I can't --” 

Laurens shifted. Alexander could not track the movement in the darkness, too consumed by the wave crashing on him. 

His orgasm punched through him with relentless intensity. He could not stop the cry that he made. He could not stop the shudders that raced through him. He had no control. 

Laurens held him as he shook. Laurens stroked his hair as he gasped for air. Laurens wrapped around him, as sure as the darkness. As all-encompassing as the eye of the storm.

“An unimpressive display of ravishing,” Laurens murmured into his ear, kissing the lobe. 

Alexander could not yet respond, because he was not quite sure he could breathe. “I was distracted. A fair opportunity has not been granted,” he finally managed, in an insulted whisper.

Laurens chuckled. Alexander took another breath, and then he drew trembling hands across the other man’s clothes to work on exposing him. Suspenders. Buttons. Ties. He listened to Lauren’s breathing as he felt his way through the layers of clothing. 

Then, his fingers made contact with flesh. Laurens hissed between his teeth. 

The flesh had a familiar texture and heat to it. He had never done this to another man, but he had plenty of understanding of the logistics. Laurens felt perfect in his hand, hot and tense. 

A thought struck him. 

He could not stop now. He had to continue forwards. 

One hand still wrapped around Laurens, he drew himself down the man’s body, rearranging the blankets to cover them as he moved. 

“What are you doing, Hamilton?” Laurens asked, far above him now. 

He could not answer with words. He could only take actions. He could only march. 

He kissed Laurens’ hardness, experimentally. There was a confused gasp. It was a strange kind of taste and texture to his mouth, although he could not deny that the heat pouring off it was more than welcome. And it was Laurens, and there was much to be said about that, as well. He licked a line from the top of the shaft to the bottom, and was rewarded with a bitten-off moan. 

He could do this.

“Allow me to express my sincere apologies for any delays in ravishing that have been experienced,” he said, against the man’s breeches, “These delays have been removed and ravishing shall continue forthwith.” He licked his lips, and then wrapped them whole around the head of the man’s erection. 

“God forgive me,” Laurens whimpered in the darkness. Alexander found his mouth too distracted to comment. He had better things to do, after all. 

The situation he had wedged himself into was an interesting one. It was not that Laurens tasted _bad_ per se, but he was suddenly in vastly unfamiliar territory. Alexander was accustomed to figuring it out as he went along; no one provided much background information on anything to a bastard orphan. This was merely another challenge in the long line of challenges that had been presented to him. 

He drew his lips slowly around Laurens and took the other man into his mouth. It was an uncomfortable fit, but it was certainly doable. He sucked in a breath through his nose and drew his tongue across flesh. The sound of a muffled moan met his ears. He slid his mouth down the shaft and the noise above him sounded louder and, at the same time, more strangled. He drifted as far down as he could go before the tip of it brushed against his throat. 

He could not manage all of it, but he imagined it was not a poor showing for a spur-of-the-moment idea. He would simply have to practice on Laurens, when there was the opportunity to do so. He was not upset at this possible future - in fact, he found himself already looking forward to the next opportunity they might have. He decided on a slow, practiced rhythm, keeping close contact between his lips and the other man’s skin. 

A hand slid through his hair, flexing and clenching, resisting the urge to pull. Another found his shoulder. 

He sped up his pace. Above him, Laurens sounded as if he had been gagged, and with good reason - he could hear the gasps and moans and what sounded like his name. He could feel the man’s shifting legs on either side of him. As he increased speed, Laurens seemed more and more frantic, and his muffled gasps more insistent. He could feel the flesh pulse in his mouth, feel it heat and harden and shake. Laurens tugged at his hair, trying to pull him away. 

The pain caused a surprising, unfamiliar slash of heat to rip down his spine. He gasped out a surprised moan against the other man, who promptly seized and lost control, pleasure overtaking him. 

There was little else he could do in this situation than swallow. Certainly spattering Laurens’ seed on either of their uniforms was vastly worse idea for a fair number of reasons, and he could only imagine the humiliation of spitting it out, only to notice he had damaged some important missive or notice. He would have been lying if he said he enjoyed it, but to listen to Laurens come apart at the seams was more than worth it. A hand disappeared from his shoulder. 

The muffled gasps became clear. 

“Alexander,” Laurens gasped, and then the hand was pulling him up. He went without complaint. “I feel adequately ravished.” 

“I should hope so, my Laurens. Now, sleep, dearest," he said, drawing a few loose hairs away from the man's face. "You are working twice as hard as usual. I will not let anyone bother you.” 

He could still feel the occasional tremor rushing through the other man's flesh. He could feel the smile in his hair, and a kiss. “Yes, sir,” Laurens murmured, as teasingly as he could manage. “Good night.”

“Good night, love,” Alexander murmured to the already-sleeping form, and closed his eyes.


	14. XIV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was only at this point that he saw the boots. It was a very large pair of boots, and they were well-shined, especially in comparison to his own sad pair. Not only that, but the boots were strangely lacking in holes. 
> 
> He knew who those boots belonged to.

*

He was alone when he woke up, with only a letter. 

_Ham-_

_Called to work early by Gen Washington. Breakfast on table. Then you are to be back to bed. If I am to find you at your desk, I will be quite upset. Rest if you are ill. Back when I am able._

_yrs forever,  
John Laurens. _

He folded the letter and put it in his pocket. It had a comforting sort of weight to it, not unlike the warm memory of their coupling the previous evening. He quickly distracted himself from considering the events in too much detail, lest he find himself desiring his Laurens again. Instead, he peeked out of the tent and cursed himself for having no idea what time it was. It was morning, or perhaps early afternoon. A man waved hello to him. He smiled, then pulled back into his tent.

Unusually, he was alone. Not even Burr had been fetched to watch him. He considered, for a long moment, escaping out of the tent and down to Washington’s headquarters to have something assigned to him. But, he realized, he did not wish to upset Laurens, after the man had been so kind to him in the nighttime. One should not upset the man that they loved.

It felt almost as if he was a healthy human being when he stood to recover the bread on the table. There was a flask there as well, along with a shiny red apple. He suppressed all but a snort of laughter, imagining his favorite French aristocrat sneaking through the dark, stealing food like a common thief. It was then that he noticed the three items were accompanied by a chipped mug. 

There was no way god could be so great as to have blessed him with coffee. Even so, he could not help himself but dare to hope. He looked down into the mug. It certainly _looked_ like coffee. Had Lafayette sold a bit of his soul to acquire this on his behalf? 

Perhaps Laurens had gotten some from his father. Alexander had not been aware that there was any coffee even left to steal. 

He picked up the mug and brought it to his lips. 

Even cold, it was more marvelous than he had words for. He could write essays about the spectacular taste of this coffee. He could talk forever about the bitter flavor bursting on his tongue and the power that suddenly surged in his blood.

He decided to himself that there was no obstacle, even their everpresent famine, that Laurens and Lafayette could not overcome. They would grow, pick, roast, grind, and steep the beans themselves, if it meant coffee. He added the whiskey after a second thought, finished the apple and the bread, and studied the tent. 

The drink infused him with unfamiliar energy. He put his hand in his pocket, touched the letter, and stared longingly at his desk. The general might have excused him for ignoring the order if he added something of value to the cause, but he did not suspect Laurens would do the same. He moved his inkwell, pen, and stack of papers down to his pile of blankets, and found one of his law books to write upon again.

“Take that, Lafayette,” he muttered, and resumed his essay in progress. 

Writing felt good. It was the first true and honest sign that he could acknowledge that perhaps his recovery would stay permanent this time, rather than him falling back into delirium. He did not feel as bogged down by the dizziness or the blurring letters that seemed to have dogged him, although he could feel the symptoms lurking like wolves in the darkness. If he truly managed to shake off those symptom, perhaps he could get a more proper assignment once Laurens permitted him to accomplish his regular tasks. But as it was, his essay would have to do - abolition being a valuable cause in and of itself, regardless of the revolution. He admitted, privately, that the battle of slavery would be one he was looking forward to. He could imagine the arguments. He could see himself striking them down one by one. It would take time, of course. Laurens would be with him, of course. 

He could not write for too long - the dizziness came and went, and more regularly if he stared at the page without looking up, and his arm began ache, different from the familiar pains that would strike his fingers and his wrist. When he could no longer hold the pen, he would put it down and work on arranging the disastrous mess of their tent and hope at the same time Laurens would not find him outside of his blankets. 

At least the writing and cleaning allowed him to pass the time. If he were to be trapped in his tent like a prisoner, the least he could do would be work on some small side projects that had been bumped off his to-do list by Washington’s orders. There had been this and a few other essays. He had also been reading several pieces regarding monetary policy, because there was no way he would allow their new nation to be so poor, hungry and ill-equipped like their army was. He had not yet begin to write down what their country would have to look like to both avoid oppressing the citizens by stealing their hard-earned money but still managing to fund itself, but it was percolating in his mind. 

When his arm no longer throbbed, he picked up the pen and started writing again, and he wrote, and wrote, and wrote, the thoughts coming fast. It was a familiar, wonderful feeling to be consumed by his own ideas again. He would be better. He would improve. 

It was darker. Hours must have passed. He had not seen Laurens in some time. The man must have been terribly busy. 

He ignored the rumbling of his stomach and set the paper to the side, moving the inkwell so that he did not accidentally knock it over. Perhaps he would try to sleep a little more, no matter what time it was. Laurens would be happy to know he was taking care of himself, and perhaps it would speed along his improvement, for there was no way Washington let him fight in the battle, nonetheless give him any sort of command, if he did not appear in perfect health. 

It was only at this point that he saw the boots. It was a very large pair of boots, and they were well-shined, especially in comparison to his own sad pair. 

He knew who those boots belonged to.

“Your Excellency, sir,” he said, slowly looking up until he met the general’s eyes. He did realize, at least, that it was good he was not at his desk. “I didn’t hear you come in.” 

“Hmm,” said Washington, who was sitting in Laurens’ chair, watching him with intent. Clearly, it had been the man’s goal to observe him without notice. Alexander knew that he had a tendency to be absorbed in his work, but that his six-foot general could sneak into his tent and study him without him noticing - he did not know for how long - was perhaps a new step in that direction. Encouraging on his path to wellness, if nothing else. 

“Do you have new orders for me, sir?” He asked. 

“No. You are still to remain in your blankets.” 

“I can transcribe your letters from my blankets, sir.” 

“Perhaps tomorrow, if you are to continue to improve.” 

“Is there further assistance I can provide for you or to the cause?” 

Washington gazed at him in the almost-silence of the tent surrounded by the busy camp. “You should know Lieutenant Colonel Laurens expressed to me that, while he professionally felt you would be well enough to fight, he seemed to feel a fair bit of hesitancy at the thought of you being in battle. If it was his decision, you would remain at camp with the rest of the sick and wounded.” 

“Sir!” Alexander sat up straighter, anger exploding hot in his chest along with a burst of dizziness, and _how dare Laurens---_ “I am more than capable of entering the battle now, and I will certainly improve, especially as I can go nowhere--” 

“But,” Washington’s voice was sharp, and it stopped him mid-rant. “Unfortunately, as much as I would grandly like to hold you back for the sake of the Lieutenant Colonel as well as the many others who are concerned for your health, including myself, I am not permitted the luxury of such nursemaiding while we fight in a war where we are so outmatched in every way. I must have all the soldiers that can fight doing so, and I must have them even if their loss would cause great pain to others.” 

A little hope began to replace the anger, like the first sight of ground after snowfall. 

“However, I am able to make choices about where those men are in the battle.” Washington barely blinked, and the man’s gaze held Alexander motionless. He never felt more exposed than with the general’s eyes on him. If Laurens looked at him like an embrace, and Burr looked at him like a pistol, Washington looked at him like a magnifying glass - seeing him more clearly and with more precision than even he could in a mirror. He could hide nothing. “So, while you will be there, I have re-assigned you to rear guard, and I do not expect you to face any serious combat. If you feel weak or dizzy, you are to retreat. You are not to make your way to the front lines. Do not ask me for command. Do I make myself clear?” 

It was definitely a compromise. But it was one that would put him on the field of battle, where he would gather experience. It would be a way for him to gain glory and reputation, and others would know that despite his illness, he had appeared. He had not been held back because he was weak. 

It was no command. 

But it was something. 

“Yes, sir,” he said. 

Washington stood up the best he could and looked away from him. “As an aside, Hamilton, you may be interested to hear that there has been a theft in the camp.” 

Alexander followed the general’s eyes, to where they were fixed on the apple core on his desk. The small flower of hope in his chest exploded into terror, and he could not help the look of panic before he schooled his features into what he hoped was a curious confusion. 

“A theft, sir?” He asked, trying for the most innocent tone of voice he could manage. Even he would admit that it was a terrible, blatantly transparent attempt. “Aside from the usual troubles, what could be of note?” 

“A man stole General Lee’s dinner,” Washington replied, and he moved over to pick the apple core up and study it. He had turned slightly away from Alexander, shielding his expression. “It was chicken, as I recall, and port. There may have been something else that I am forgetting.” He put the apple core in his pocket. “As you can imagine, he was quite upset and threatened severe punishments on the man or men who took it, if they are ever found, regardless of their station or rank.” 

“Were I not ordered to be on bedrest in my tent, sir, as I have been for the past several days, I would look immediately for these criminals,” Alexander managed, although he could not deny that his tone of voice sounded odd even to his own ears. He glad that Washington was no longer looking at him. 

“I am sure you would, and report them immediately, as I know you hold General Lee in high esteem.” It seemed only a miracle that Washington kept his voice so even on what they both knew to be a bold-faced lie. “Although, as the general is now aware of these events, him and his guard will certainly be on high alert now, and should the thief strike again, he will surely be caught.” The general took a breath, and then turned to face him with narrowed eyes. “Were you to find this thief, I hope you would let him know that despite any differences in opinion, this petty theft is terribly disrespectful and reeks of remarkably poor discipline. This thief should know that they shake the bonds of the very thing that holds this army together, and they dishonor me and themselves with it, despite their intentions. I need not remind you that the general still grandly outranks everyone in this camp besides me, and he would not be outside his bounds to bring great harm to the offending party in any number of ways.” 

“I would let them know that immediately, sir, if I were to discover them.” 

Washington nodded. “As I had thought. I will send Laurens if I need you again.” 

“Yes, sir,” Alexander said, and saluted. 

The general left the tent. Alexander stared at his desk where the apple core had been. Despite the improvement, he also knew that had he been completely well, he would not have made such a rudimentary error.


	15. XV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pretty quickly, Alexander found himself antsy to re-enter the fray. He was not sure how many days of this he would be able to manage without jumping right out of his skin.

*

The next few days were among the strangest Alexander could remember. There was a veil of normality that had come over his tent, in which he convinced Laurens that he was well enough to sit at his desk provided he wore his blankets. However, the usual unending stream of requests from Washington (as well as Congress, the other generals, Lafayette, and everyone else) had completely dried up, leaving him with only his own to-do list to accomplish. He had enough strength now that he was able to read for several hours in a row before the words began to blur on the page, and when that happened, he would close his eyes and mutter to himself as he planned out his next essay in his head. Reading was easier than writing, at least for now; this provided him a good opportunity to continue to grow his expertise of monetary policy as well as a broader understanding of what their ideal government might look like.

Laurens and Lafayette would drop in occasionally, but it became increasingly clear that both men were intensely busy and were not able to create time for smalltalk. Alexander was familiar with this kind of routine. He had been been in the buzzing pre-battle camp environment before, running from one command to another, furiously creating reports and reviewing stocks, going over strategies and plans for every possible situation that could occur. But he was not now. 

The strange thing being that this chaos happened around him, but never reached him. The chaos was just beyond his fingertips, like his missing days. It came closer when Laurens would come in, nose red from the cold, muttering about supplies or troop moments, but he never stayed for long - only to ask how Alexander was feeling, or if he wanted for anything, or if there was anything that could be done on his behalf. At no point did Laurens have a real discussion with him during the day regarding his orders; even when he delivered another poor facsimile of a lunch for both of them, he ate in a hurry, and only pressed a kiss to Alexander’s lips with a “keep inside and gather your strength, my Hamilton,” before hurrying back into his work. 

When he stood to follow the man out of habit, Laurens fixed him with a glare of such intensity that he sat back down and forgot to complain. 

Pretty quickly, Alexander found himself antsy to re-enter the fray. He was not sure how many days of this he would be able to manage without jumping right out of his skin.

He took this frustration out on a letter to Angelica, because she would understand what it was like to be held back from what you could accomplish, simply because you had been struck with a little fever. 

He kept Laurens to himself. 

He found one their stubby candles to read late into night, refreshing his memory on one of his law textbooks. He had decided that he would be awake until Laurens appeared, and since he had slept during the day, he did not imagine that it would be an issue. Of course, he also knew that work could keep a man late into the night at a time like this. But it was no worry, for he had plenty of blankets, and of course his books, and he even drank a fair bit of the port that Lafayette had stolen from Lee. While it seemed unlikely, he did not want to imagine the disaster that might occur if Lee discovered it. 

The other new change to his daily routine was the following: Instead of retreating to his cot, Laurens, usually bone tired at the end of the day, would stagger straight into the pile of blankets and make himself at home. When Alexander had been confined to the blankets, the man’s freezing clothes would disturb him from his reading. When he was allowed to work at his desk, Laurens would come up to him and squeeze his shoulder, then settle himself in what had become their combined bed. 

When Alexander slid the blankets over both of them, Laurens would wrap his arms around him and pull him close. He would put his cold nose in Alexander’s hair and mutter to him about the day. He usually only got about five or six sentences in before he went to sleep, and Alexander was left in the warm, still quiet of his lover’s arms. 

He could do nothing here, for it was too cramped to write and too dark to read. But somehow, for the first time, it was not too bad to be away from his pursuits. He would turn in Laurens' arms and look at him until he could not stay awake.

 

** 

A few days later, Laurens appeared in their tent at midmorning. Alexander was just starting his first plans for what their new nation’s treasury might look like, and books and essays were around him in every direction, completely unworking all the energy he’d put into making their tent a place where anyone besides him could find anything. 

“Good morning, dearest,” he said, for he was not yet so absorbed into the work that a man could stand for hours without him noticing. “How do you fair?” 

“We are to march tomorrow night,” Laurens said, and Alexander sat up, putting his pen down. “The general wishes to see you. I suspect he will want to view how well you move today to see if you are able to come to battle.” 

Alexander stood in a hurry.

“You look as if you have done nothing for some time,” Laurens said with a smile, looking him up and down. Alexander could only imagine how terrible he looked, in between not eating and barely leaving his tent. “When we speak of this war, I hope that the effort to draw you into your tent for days can be a historical note. Yes, there were grand battles, and noble victories, and epic defeats, but can you imagine the awe when the great Alexander Hamilton was trapped in his bed for days at a time?” 

“I daresay that I have enough energy to run to your father and back,” Alexander replied, because of course it was not as if he did not enjoy reading and writing, but it did not compare to the sheer adrenaline and glory of battle. “I will go to the general immediately.” 

“The general first, and then my father, perhaps.” 

Laurens pressed a kiss to his cheek, and Alexander smiled. 

They hurried to the general’s tent. He could not help but relish the ache in his legs as he managed more steps in this walk than he had done for days. The sharp cold stung him, but it was welcome, at least for the first few minutes. The camp was alive and in a state of furious activity, with men hurrying all over, attempting to get their affairs in order in case they were to meet their end. Men smiled at him, and he nodded back; he did not know how much of his recovery was known information. 

Washington, Lafayette, and Lee were sitting in Washington’s tent, all three wearing drawn, serious expressions. The other aides were huddled in a corner, furiously writing on their own desks. 

“How do you fair, Lieutenant Colonel?” Washington asked, skipping introductions. “You seem to have managed to get here without trouble.” 

“Excellency, were you to ask me to deliver information to Virginia, I would be able,” he answered, and it was true. He was ready. The dizziness and aches had all but disappeared, unless it was an exceptionally loud environment, which he had learned during a drill near his tent. But he could not allow such a thing to stop him.

“Good. As you know, you have been reassigned to rear guard and will receive more thorough orders tonight. Lieutenant Colonel Laurens, you are with General Lee. He will need your ears more than I and he may have further orders for you.” 

Lee stood up and arranged his jacket. “With me, Lieutenant Colonel,” he said, and Laurens nodded and followed the other man out. 

Washington waited until the two men had left before looking back to him. “Speak frankly to me, son. If I put you on the battlefield, are you to be stunned by gunfire and faint?”

“Speaking frankly, sir,” Alexander replied, trying his best not to be annoyed, “I will not be stunned by gunfire and faint.” 

“Good.” 

“We will all be very unhappy if you are to leave us in your great effort to become a martyr,” Lafayette added. Alexander rolled his eyes.

Washington studied him for a long moment. “I’m reinstating your regular duties. If you do not perform up to an acceptable standard, I reserve the right to revoke your combat position.” he gestured to a stack of papers. “Deliver these and return to me with responses.” 

He had never felt so relieved to be a glorified secretary before. 

The next evening, he marched.


	16. XVI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurens. He needed to find Laurens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know anything about Revolutionary War battles. Sorry if this is completely inaccurate.

Washington’s goal to place him in the rear guard did not work, for there had been an unexpected shift from the British troops, and now muskets and cannonballs were all over. 

_Do not be stunned and faint_ , he thought to himself, over and over, even though the crashing and screams and explosions of the battlefield made it difficult for him to stay focused. Their ragged colonial troops were like a dark ocean spreading across the land, whereas the British troops reminded him of a smear of blood, like one might leave when sliding down a wall. The battle took a sort of a hazy quality to it, as if in a dream, although the screams and sounds of musket and cannon fire reminded him all too clearly of how real it was. And then there was the smell - he could never dream a smell so horrible. He would know the smell of gunpowder and rot and shit and blood anywhere. 

But he had promised Laurens not to die, and he had been permitted to be on the field of battle, and that would have to be enough. He could not break such a promise or throw away such a chance. He shot and he avoided the stab of a bayonet, and he reloaded his musket on sheer habit, and then he shot again and avoided another charge. The battle was chaos. He was in a blurry hell, powered only by the instinctual actions of a soldier and his own adrenaline. Even if he had not been dogged by the stubborn remains of his fever that the battle brought the forefront, he would have hardly been able to keep track of their men or the surging red troops. He managed a clear sight of a man in red and, in a slowed moment of hyper-focus, raised his musket. The recoil of it snapped against his shoulder and brought him crisply back into reality. 

"Onward!" 

He knew that voice, and was commanded by it. He looked up and saw the general, sabre raised, horse reared. Even if only for a second, the visual took his breath away. The horse charged, and Alexander was drawn to it, like a magnet. The startled British men diving out of the way of striking hooves were easy targets for his sabre, and he cut them down without seeing them. 

" _Bonjour!_ " He knew that voice, too. " _Vive la révolution!_ " And more storming of hooves, as Lafayette hurled past him, laughing maniacally. A musket raised, but Alexander saw it before a shot could fell his friend. His own rang first. 

The man dropped. 

" _Merci!_ " Lafayette yelled over his shoulder. 

"Have you seen Laurens?" He yelled at the Frenchman. Laurens had been assigned away from him, and thought of his man in this chaos felt like a weight clamped directly onto his heart. 

" _Oui!_ " Lafayette ducked a bullet and pointed with his sabre. Some of the weight lifted from Alexander’s chest. "Save your Laurens!" He laughed and took off, kicking up bloody snow like a dust cloud. 

Alexander allowed himself a smile before he headed off in the direction indicated. 

A cannonball crashed somewhere near by, sending him flying and covering him in a pile of snow and gore. He hit the frozen ground in a dazed heap and tried to make sense of what his body was telling him. His shoulder and hip had taken the brunt of the impact and they throbbed painfully. The sudden cold, all around him, shattered his concentration. He staggered to his feet. 

His eye caught the glint of metal in the snow. His sabre. He retrieved it, shaking the stun from his head, and then noticed his musket on the ground. The weapon would be useless damp, but he slung it over his shoulder nonetheless. 

Laurens. He needed to find Laurens. 

He groaned as he wiped the snow from his eyes. His hand came away red, but it was cold. Someone else's blood. He smeared it away with his sleeve as to stop it from freezing on his face. 

He did a mental check as he dragged his feet away. He drew his hands down his body. Something warm. His left side. He took a deep breath and felt a sharp stab of pain. He closed his eyes and prayed, then did a cursory examination of where his uniform had been slit open. 

It was a surface wound. Nothing had entered. 

He took a breath. The pain cleared his mind of fog. 

The battle roared, distracting him from the wound. It pulsed and thrummed around him, like a monster's heartbeat. It reached, like claws, to keep him from his Laurens. It saw his promise, and it sought to snap it like a fish bone. 

He could not let that happen.

He spat cold blood out of his mouth. 

He squeezed his eyes shut to maintain a little discipline and forced his feet to move forwards. Laurens. He had to find his Laurens. Where was he? Which direction had Lafayette pointed? He had not made Laurens promise him not to die.

Fear gave him speed. It wrapped around his heart like a quilt and made him feel like he was suffocating. It powered him as he searched through the corpses and the injured. None were Laurens. 

His eye caught movement in the distance. They were winning. The battle was easing, leaving only the ringing in his ears and the moaning of men around him.

The British were retreating. The continental army was moving forward. They were pressing the attack. 

“Catch their tails!” Washington’s voice roared, from somewhere. 

He had to do what he was commanded. Despite that his heart pounded and throbbed to the beat of Laurens’ name, his feet moved without him thinking. Forward. They were to go forward, so he must go forward. The voice filled him and overpowered everything else. It provided a new source of energy, something that he could feed on. With the command, he was unstoppable and indestructible. 

He ran, drawing on the rally for energy, following the sight of Washington’s jacket. Red coats were obstacles to be dispatched. He drew his sabre and slashed, forgetting everything but the battle. He could hear the squelch as he stepped in a puddle of melted snow and blood. 

It seemed like the battle had stopped, all of a sudden, as he parried one last slash and then stabbed, trying to block out the scream of agony his opponent let out. The man moaned as he fell, but Alexander could not pay attention to him. He had to carry on. 

He took a deep breath of the stinking air. Despite the sharp cold, all he could smell was blood and rot. He staggered away from the fallen British men, looking around, trying to get his bearings. He wiped off the bloody sabre on his dirt-stained breeches and slid it back into the sheath. He had to walk. He had to find Laurens. His Laurens was still out there, somewhere in this miserable hell. His pulse pounded in his eyes, next to his ringing ears remaining from the cannonfire. 

One foot in front of another.

He was born to march. 

The power of Washington’s rally left him as suddenly as it has arrived. It left a gaping void that just as quickly filled up with his familiar friend, exhaustion. 

He did not know how long he could move.

He staggered to his knees and vomited up nothing. Blackness crept into his vision from all sides. All around him, the moans of the dying seemed to have a hypnotic, lulling effect. The dead and dying were calling to him, to be one of their ranks. He could not listen to their song. 

He forced himself back onto his feet and looked around, but it was hard to identify anything in particular. Somehow, the world reminded him of a painting. There had been a man who lived down the street from them on St. Croix who had been a painter. He had painted the ocean and the beach. 

The hurricane had killed him. 

Perhaps if that man had gone mad with pain and suffering, he could draw this. Perhaps if the devil reached out from the hell they stood on, and touched the man, this is what he would paint.

“Stand up, Hamilton. Do not faint,” he admonished himself sharply, and stood. He took one step in front of another. He glanced at the men on the ground, like puzzle pieces. He forced himself to look at each one. That one was not Laurens. This one was not Laurens. 

“ _Mon ami!”_ A set of strong shoulders found themselves under his arm and lifted him more completely to his feet, more dragging him than anything. He could not see the man. He could only see the dead and the snow. 

“My Laurens,” He muttered, forcing himself to help. Step. Step. Step. “Where - My Laurens - I promised--” 

“We will find your heart, Alexander.” He was shaken gently, and it rattled the darkness out of his vision. “We must away. Be awake, man! Walk!” 

He took the stumbling steps ordered of him. He could not stop searching the faces. 

He did not know where they went, or how long they walked. It seemed like forever, in the dull haze of his mind. He felt desperately weak. The cold crept in on all sides, like a familiar storm. He could see it in the distance - the hurricane winds, the hailstones. 

His wound burned like fire, and the cloth froze his sweaty skin and pulled when he moved. 

He was placed against a tree. He had no energy to compete against it. “There is your Laurens,” the man said, and then fled into the after-battle hellscape. 

“My…?” Alexander said, and he turned his head. 

_Yes._

“Laurens!” He cried, a burst of adrenaline flooding through him all at once. The man’s eyes were closed, and all of a sudden a dark terror bloomed in his chest like a sunflower -- 

No. No no no no no. 

Desperation powered him. He groped at Laurens’ bloody coat and gave him a good shake-- 

“What in god’s name, man --” Laurens croaked, and the sound sounded like a choir of angels. 

Laurens saw him, right then, and his eyes went wide, and flung both arms around Alexander’s body, squeezing him hard enough to set off aches all over. It was a wonderful pain, despite their grime, despite the sweat and cold. 

“My Alexander,” Laurens said into his ear, and gave him an inch back so they could look at each other.

He brought one hand up to touch Laurens’ grease-smeared cheek, the other sliding around his neck. He pressed a gentle kiss to those lips. He didn’t care who saw. He didn’t care what happened after this moment. They were both still alive, and he was here, with his Laurens. 

“I love you,” Laurens said against his mouth, hands desperately folded into his collar. “Are you injured at all?” 

Alexander traced his hands over Laurens’ face and stared at him. “Nothing serious. I have been cut, but not dangerously. I am merely very tired and very sore. So I am as I have been forever, it seems. And you, my Laurens?” 

“I am marvelous, now that you have appeared.” Laurens smiled at him, and Alexander was helpless to do anything but smile back. He had the forethought to look around them this time before kissing Laurens again. The world narrowed to soft lips and the warmth of the other man’s mouth. 

When they split, he moved. He slid one arm around Laurens’ waist, keeping him close. Just the weight of the man next to him allowed him to relax.

Laurens slid an arm around his shoulders and heaved a heavy sigh, relaxing against the tree they shared. He stared without thinking at the setting sun. Alexander pressed a kiss to his cheek and leaned against his shoulder, closing his eyes and trying to filter the sights and sounds of battle from his mind. Instead of the dying screams of men, he imagined Laurens’ laughter. Instead of the heat of spilling blood, it was the warmth of Laurens’ skin. Instead of the flash of the muzzle barrel and the shine of steel, it was the sight of his man smiling. 

Even in a miserable landscape like this, being with Laurens seemed heavenly. 

“Can you stand, my Hamilton?” Laurens asked him, after some time. “We should return to camp, or try to at least rendezvous with Lafayette or the general.” 

“Yes, I think so,” Hamilton replied. With reluctance, he withdrew his hand from around Laurens’ waist. He used the tree to stand, and although his feet were unsteady, they seemed to work. He looked down at the bloodied area of his jacket where shrapnel had grazed him, but he was more irritated than concerned. “It is not serious. Should you not to go Lee?” he said, noting Laurens’ frown. 

“If you insist, though I will pay more care to you when we return. As for General Lee, I am sure he will not be far from Washington’s side.”

“Hopefully he has gotten dreadfully lost, so you will only be able to attend to my wound when we return to camp.”

Laurens laughed. “Scoundrel,” he said, with an affection that pushed light into Alexander’s frozen fingers. They began to walk. 

“Laurens,” he said, suddenly, “I want you to promise me --” 

“Shh, Alexander, just this once. Let me pretend the man that has forced me to desire him will, occasionally, grant me a moment of silence,” Laurens said. 

They stopped to rest. They had come to the top of a little foothill on the outskirts of the true battlefield; there were no dead or dying men around him, and the smell in the air had petered out to only a faint stench of iron and gunpowder. The crisp cold offered a familiar sting, but Alexander found it suddenly tolerable, with Laurens standing next to him. The setting sun chilled him, but it turned the sky an extraordinary color of orange, like the very planet was lighting a bonfire for their cause. It reminded him of -- 

Alexander turned to look at Laurens, who was staring at the sun in silence. He was beautiful, Alexander decided. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what it might be like to stare out on the green French countryside with Laurens and Eliza and Lafayette, and at a whim he intertwined Laurens’ grimy fingers with his own. Laurens squeezed his hand. The moment felt irreplaceable and isolated - theirs. Their eye of the storm that was this war. Yellow sky and all. 

Alexander wished he could summon a painter to this spot, and he would hang the painting of this moment on his mantle, to be looked at at every possible opportunity. Instead, he stared across the horizon, promising himself to never forget. 

“You have run off!” Lafayette yelled from the foot of their little hill, startling Laurens bad enough that he jumped. Alexander snorted and grinned at the Frenchman as he strode up the incline. 

“Good god, Lafayette. I have survived an intense battle and surely the heart palpations you give me should be my death,” Laurens grumbled. 

Lafayette, who looked as ragged and disgusting as the both of them, rolled his eyes. “Presuming you both suffer no more grievous wounds worse than a bad fright, the general wishes to review the battle and the possible actions next to be taken. I would not advise to keep him waiting. Certainly you know how he can become upset in such an event.” 

“Yes, we are aware,” Alexander answered. He took a deep breath and put the moment in his heart, locking it there forever. He shifted and winced as his undershirt rubbed at the cut at his side. “Come, my Laurens, Lafayette. Let us face the next challenges of this great war together. Independence still awaits us.” 

Lafayette smiled and offered a little bow, then turned and walked back down the hill, leading them. 

Alexander managed one more brief kiss on his Laurens’ lips, and they began the long walk back to camp, ready to withstand other half of the storm.

__

_fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU. I can't express enough thanks for everyone who read, commented, kudoed, fanarted (!!!), stuck around, chatted with me on twitter about this... seriously. you guys are amazing. thanks so much. I hope you all enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. This story came out of the very little thought of "Ham gets really sick and Laurens is the eye of his storm," and here we are, 35000 words later. Thanks. 
> 
> Is there going to be an Ocular sequel? No, probably not. What's next for me? Good question. If your Lams itch is not satisfied, I recommend [breathing in your dust](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5409965) (shorter, complete) or [the song of alexander](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5427092/chapters/12539882) (longer, not complete). If you want something completely different, I recommend [notes concerning certain performances of hamilton](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5763028). 
> 
> Again: THANK YOU. For the last time, and as always, I can be found on twitter at [@picklesnake](https://twitter.com/picklesnake), or tumblr at [iniquiticity.](https://iniquiticity.tumblr.com) For now.... signing off.


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